


broke/n

by Excelsior10



Series: Incarnadine [3]
Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Gang Behavior, Canon-Typical Violence, Dom/sub Undertones, Drug Abuse, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, General Sacrilege, Gun Violence, I would tag dubious morality but its not even really dubious at this point, Infidelity, Light BDSM, No I Didn't, Not Canon Compliant, Oral Sex, Overdose, Period Typical Attitudes, Rough Sex, Self Harm, Tommy Shelby BDE, ah I meant OBE, basically the peaky trifecta, drug use and abuse, facism, the peaky blinders pull no punches and neither do i, warnings for explicit violence and death and sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-13
Updated: 2020-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:34:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 32
Words: 76,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21782482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Excelsior10/pseuds/Excelsior10
Summary: "Hearts and fireworks are only beautiful when they burst."Tensions rise, enemies scheme, and death looms on the horizon. Hearts are burned and frozen. Fire and ice fight the war, each other, and themselves.
Relationships: Tommy Shelby/Original Character(s), Tommy Shelby/Tessa Reilly (OC)
Series: Incarnadine [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1538224
Comments: 486
Kudos: 226





	1. Let Me Live / Let Me Die

**Author's Note:**

> HELLO MY ANGELS MY BABIES MY BUTTERFLIES I hope you're all doing well! This is the third installment in A Crimson Constellation, and, as always, it has an accompanying playlist, with chapter names taken from the song titles. Here is the link, if you'd like to listen while you read for a Truly Immersive Experience(TM):  
https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3B6vhDhsUSlvis3jImbWEU
> 
> There's also a moodboard!!  
https://www.pinterest.com/falloutginger/broken/
> 
> I feel like I should give you all a fair warning that this story is both intense and depressing and at times intensely depressing, but let's be real, you probably know to expect that by now lmao

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I know fear, I know dread  
Look his eyes, they've turned to lead  
Kiss me, I am the colder  
It's killing time

“The Royal Air Force has agreed to relinquish one Bristol F.2, for a designated and very specific period of time, with promises that it will be returned intact and in perfect working condition,” Winston Churchill said, his deep-set eyes gleaming out under his brows behind his golden spectacles. 

“You’re giving me the plane?” Tommy said, tapping a finger twice against the side of his cigarette. Gray ashes floated down onto the plush maroon carpet and settled there like dust, like snow, like the smoke falling from the sky in France. 

“I am _ giving _you nothing,” Churchill responded gruffly. “The plane’s serial number is obsolete due to it being credited as destroyed during the war, so it cannot be tied to any involvement with the British military. Which is what made it so particularly difficult to locate. However, should your mission, whatever it may be, fail, you will be charged with commandeering a stolen piece of government property, and will be persecuted as such.” 

Tommy sucked in another drag, the smell of smoke permeating the office. He jerked his chin slightly to the side. 

“I suppose I’d better not fail, then.”

Churchill regarded him somberly, as if considering inside his head whether he was actively assisting in the deranged antics of a madman. _ He wouldn’t be too far off, _Tommy thought, crossing his legs and shifting in his chair slightly. 

“What _ is _your mission, Mr. Shelby?” He questioned, and Tommy tutted. 

“Personal business.” 

“And what sort of personal business requires the use of a deadly fighter plane?” 

It was obvious to Tommy that Churchill was not asking out of friendly concern, and that if Tommy continued to remain unforthcoming with his answers, he would not be granted the necessary firepower. 

“The kind that involves Germans,” he said, shortly, and Churchill huffed. 

“So this does concern the Perish Judah,” he commented, as if that was something he had already known and simply wanted to confirm, and Tommy nodded, slowly. “They represent a grave threat to our national security.” 

“And me own,” Tommy quipped, his tone light but the meaning heavy. “They tried to blow me up, few weeks back. Killed a friend of mine.” 

“Yes, I was told about that,” Churchill responded. His stare was solidifying, like trying to look away from the eyes of a great lion, a slight sheen of sweat on his forehead, despite the cold of the oncoming winter. “My condolences for your loss.” 

“I appreciate that,” Tommy said, not stopping to consider whether he actually did. 

“I was also informed that the Reilly estate was burned to the ground. Addison Manor. Leonard Reilly himself called me to ask if there was anything that could be done, but I told him that the Crown has no business concerning itself with mere house fires.” 

A spark from the cigarette landed on the top of Tommy’s shiny black shoe, and he shook it off. “I’m sure he took that well.”

“Hardly.” Winston said, curtly, leaning back in his chair and placing his hands on its armrests with a sigh. “But something tells me he would prefer hearing that dismissal than for me to educate him on your… plot.”

“Most likely,” Tommy agreed, shortly, the smoke in his throat catching on the words. He coughed. 

“This is a large ask, Mr. Shelby,” the older man acknowledged. “And if I provide you with this assistance, I will need something in return.” His fingers came to steeple under his drooping chin, observing Tommy like he was an interesting form of endangered animal at a zoo. Tommy stared back, waiting. He had known this, already. As was the way of his world. You explode up one grenade, it triggers others, a life of landmines. 

“Name your price,” Tommy said, apathetically, and his facetious reaction made Churchill’s thin lips twitch slightly. 

“Tell me something, first. How do you endeavor to use this very specific piece of artillery to your advantage?” 

Tommy took the last drag, and snubbed the cigarette out on the tray on the desk in front of him, which held the remnants of fat, expensive cigars. He breathed out the smoke in a swirl of gray. 

“Ah, Mr. Churchill,” he said. “I’m throwing a party. How else?” 

  
  
  
  


“_No,” _Tessa said, sharply, puffing a strand of hair out of her face. “No. Stay.” 

Star looked at her with the closest thing to irritation that a horse’s face could possibly convey, her delicate ears pricked back. She took another, disobedient step to the side. 

“_Stay,” _Tessa said, again, holding up her hand, palm out, in front of her. It was cold in the small indoor ring, and her fingers were becoming numb. The filly hesitated, then reached her neck down to scratch her nose on her forelock, snorting. “Close enough,” Tessa muttered, and then dropped her hand. “Come,” she said, clicking her tongue to encourage the horse, who looked up at her again, her ears swiveling to show she was listening and that just made Tessa feel like she was ignoring the commands on purpose, her sleek black coat and graceful lines making her look more like a black panther than an equine in the dusty light, the air filled with the scent of dirt and hay and horses, particles catching the sunlight streaming down from the high windows like golden glitter. 

“Come!” Tessa said, firmly, and Star turned to look at the ring’s entrance like she was just waiting for Tessa to give in so that she could leave. “You are _ not _ listening to me at _ all, _you defiant little creature,” Tessa said, exasperatedly, and soft footsteps sounded on the wooden floor outside the dirt ring. Tommy approached quietly, but Star had heard him before Tessa, and by the time she spotted him across the open room, he was leaning on the side of the rails of the ring. Star nickered a bit and walked over to him with sloping strides, her long, shining tail swishing behind her as she walked, her hooves disturbing more dust and scattering it behind her slightly. 

“I didn’t give you permission to move!” Tessa shouted at her horse like she expected a response, but Star didn’t so much as move her ears to grasp her words this time, nudging Tommy with her nose on his shoulder over the wooden rails. Tessa huffed and walked over to where her traitorous horse was standing with Thomas, her feet sinking into the soft dirt. He was still wearing his hat and overcoat, and despite just coming in from the outdoors, his skin held no traces of pink, no blush of color across his cheeks, like the cold just made him look colder. 

“So when are you going to boss me around like that, eh?” Tommy asked, mischief in his sparkling eyes the color the sky dreamed of being, and Tessa rolled her eyes. 

“She likes you better than me,” she said, trying not to whine, but Tommy smirked before he ducked his head to hide his expression under his cap. He stroked Star’s nose idily, looking at her with the gentle appreciation he reserved for horses and his family, when he thought they couldn’t see it. 

“She just knows who pays her bills,” Tommy said, and Tessa reached out to smack him but wasn’t standing close enough, so she just batted the air near his arm and then crossed hers, shooting a glare at her horse, who was practically purring under Tommy’s hand. She patted Star’s flank, even though the filly hardly deserved it. She really was a beautiful thing. 

“You giving Lolo a run for her money, trouble?” Tommy said in a low voice to the filly, but there was a hard, tired quality in his face, despite his easy words. Tessa hadn’t seen him in two days, and he seemed worn, and tense, his shoulders set under his handsome, dark coat. 

“Are you alright, Tommy?” Tessa asked, quietly, and she should have known better than to expect him to respond. He glanced at her quickly, the flash of blue like a bolt of lightning cracking open the sky. 

“Fine,” he said, shrugging slightly like it hardly mattered. “Have you eaten?” 

“No,” Tessa sighed. “Been working with this one.” She paused and smiled a bit. “For all the good it’s done.” 

“Have Curly rub her down for you. Come up to the house with me.” 

Tessa had learned not to bother arguing with his casual commands, and she was hungry, anyway, having spent the better part of three hours doing little more than chasing Star around the ring. Thinking of chasing made her think of Chase, and it felt like a needle in her heart, that stabbed her if it beat wrong. 

“Yeah, alright. I’ll go find him.” She walked down the rail to the opening, and was surprised that Tommy followed, lingering a bit behind her. Star followed him along the inside of the ring with undying loyalty, and Tessa saw Tommy catalogue it with amusement. “Don’t you dare give her sugar cubes or whatever it is you do to make her love you so much while I do,” Tessa warned, and she put her cold hands on her hips to punctuate the point. Tommy snorted and took a few steps closer to her as she reached the edge of the ring, stepping back onto the wooden floor. 

“I don’t feed her sugar,” he said, and Tessa glared at him as he approached her, keeping her posture stony. He stopped in front of her, close enough to touch, Star breathing and flicking her tail in irritation at the removal of Tommy’s attention. “Maybe I’m just that irresistible,” he said, making a smug face, and Tessa bit back her smile. He reached up a gloved hand and stroked the back of his fingers across her cheek, briefly, the slick material chilly against her skin, hidden thoughts flickering behind his eyes. Tessa stepped forward and dropped her hands to her sides. 

“Maybe,” she conceded, and his breath ghosted across her face, warm and smelling of smoke and mint. He dropped his head slightly, his eyes covered by the brim of his cap, the sharp cut of his cheeks, lined with faint white scars, the only thing visible. She moved closer, to inspect him further, to take in his evident exhaustion, to figure out how to remedy it, and he moved his hand to her waist and pulled her against him, the leather gloves creaking slightly with the motion, his hand strong against her side through her coat, his chest hard. She lifted her arms around his shoulders and tucked her head against his collar, the knot of hit tie pressing against her cheek, his smell sharp and soft all at once. 

“I missed you,” he said, so quietly, burying his face in her neck and breathing out heavily across it, sending goosebumps down her arms. 

“I missed you too, love,” Tessa said, his uncharacteristic softness only increasing her concern. She ran her hand along the shortly cropped hair at the back of his head below his cap, and he pressed his other palm to her back to hold her tighter, for just a moment, before pulling back. She pressed a kiss to his jaw, the bone sharp under her lips and his skin firm. Star snorted loudly behind them, and Tessa chucked. 

“I think she’s jealous,” she said, smiling, and Tommy blew a sharp breath out of his nose, half a laugh. 

“She should be,” he said, ticking Tessa’s chin up with his fingers and kissing her briefly, his lips soft. “Let’s go eat.” 

  
  



	2. Blue Gasoline

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cling to me, like the smell of gasoline

The silence that Tommy had grown accustomed to was gone, banished by boisterous voices, footsteps racing up and down the halls, the house’s many bedrooms filled to the brim with people, and despite the circumstances, and the heavy, pressing, constant fear, and the fact that he would never admit it aloud, the cacophony was a relief. The voices and memories and deep, dark recesses in his mind were quieted by the constant disruption while he was at Arrow House, and he found himself wishing, for once, to be home rather than out conducting business when he was unable to return. But the plan was complex, and the details of it weighed on him like being buried in the earth, like a collapsed tunnel, an exigent knowledge that he knew he would inevitably have to share but was, for the time being, carrying on his own, as he made his way up to the house from the stables, hand in hand with Tessa. Her hand was small and cold in his, her footsteps careful and soft on the grass and then the gravel. She was wearing the jodhpurs he so loved, her tumbling hair pinned up, and if he wasn’t certain that they would be interrupted, he would have fucked her in the stables and damn the horses and the splinters from the wooden stalls. She looked tired, and there were dark circles under her eyes like someone had dipped their thumbs in ink and pressed them there, but her fingers fluttered against his with a nervous, endless energy, and he squeezed her hand a bit to settle her. She glanced at him, her large eyes greener than usual against the brown of her jacket, almost a distinguishable color, but still half gray and half blue and completely the shade he saw when he closed his own. He held the door to the house open for her, wordlessly, appreciating the movement of her hips as she walked through it for a moment before following her. Within an instant, a child was grabbing his free hand, attempting to yank him away from Tessa, who relinquished him with a small smile and put her hands in her pockets instead. 

“Uncle Tommy!” The child squeaked, tugging him down the foyer to the dining room, his feet pattering in quick strides beside Tommy’s long ones, Tessa lingering slightly behind. Tommy knew that the child, Rose, was either the second or third youngest of John’s, but he always had a hard time keeping track of the exact order of his brother’s many offspring. It seemed like every month they were welcoming a new Shelby child into the world, which once upon a time would have been a hardship, another mouth to feed, another potential heartbreak, but was now was a blessing accepted with open arms. “Come see what me and James ‘ave done!” 

“What you’ve done, eh? Should I be worried?” Tommy asked, but followed obediently into the dining room, where the large table had been pushed against the wall to accommodate a ring of cushions laid on the center of the floor, occupied by the majority of the family. A large, shallow ceramic vase had been placed in the center, the plant that it had previously housed removed and a small fire lit in its center instead, clouding the room with heady smoke, the plant itself conspicuously absent. Tommy sighed, and heard Tessa laugh softly beside him. 

“We made a circle!” Rose was saying, pointing excitedly at the scene, and Tommy caught Polly’s eyes (and smirk) as he took it in. “Like the In’dins!” 

“Yes, you certainly have,” Tommy said, and then addressed the room full of supposed adults. “And none of you considered preventing this?” 

Michael smiled, another of John’s children hanging half off his neck like a particularly rambunctious monkey. “We’re being Indians, Tommy,” he said, his grin fading slowly as he observed Tessa, who was leaning in the doorway. Michael had been sheltered from involvement with the family’s first altercation with the Perish, and still seemed rather unsure regarding his opinion on Tessa’s involvement in the struggle, but that wasn’t Tommy’s problem. 

“And you’re the chief,” Polly said, patting the cushion to her left. “Come sit.” 

Tommy shook his head, disbelievingly, wondering how Frances felt about the rehoming of her plants, probably dumped unceremoniously somewhere out back, to make room for the glittering flames, which Arthur was supplying with a steady stream of newspaper for kindling, much to the children’s amusement. James laughed every time Arthur snuck his hand into the burning embers and then drew it back, quick as a snake, the inky pages turning the flames a glowing blue before receding back into an orange haze. Tessa moved up behind Tommy, putting a hand softly on his back, and he realized that even Leonard was there, Karl sitting contentedly on his knee. The old man glanced at Tommy but did not hold his gaze, his disapproval of Tommy’s proximity to his daughter evident. If Tessa noticed this, she did not react. 

“Come on, chief,” she said, moving out from behind him and sitting down on one of the two empty cushions beside Polly, with Michael to her side. 

“Right,” Arthur said, the moment they had settled down, Tessa’s legs crossed and her dainty chin resting on her propped knee. “This here is what the Indians drink,” he proclaimed, pulling a bottle from seemingly midair like a magic trick, and Tommy released another weary sigh, but he caught Tessa’s amused glance in a quick, frozen moment of connection. 

“Indian drink!” Rose echoed enthusiastically, and Esme, who was rocking an even smaller child in her lap, said, “No! A _ grown up _Indian drink,” firmly, and Rose’s face fell. 

“But if you ask the maids, I’m sure they’ll bring you a special one, just for you. The Indian princess,” Tessa said, and smiled at her, and Tommy’s chest felt tight. 

“Really?” Rose asked, looking to her mother for permission, and Esme threw up a hand in a gesture of surrender. Tessa stood in a fluid motion, holding out her hand to the small, dark-haired girl, who had her grandfather’s eyes. 

“Let’s go find Frances and ask her,” she said, and Rose leapt to her feet as well, sticking her little hand into Tessa’s. Something in Tommy wanted, illogically, to tell her not to go, like if he let her out of his sight for even a moment, he might never see her again, but he kept his face blank as he watched her leave the room, Rose bouncing excitedly beside her. There was a moment of comfortable silence as Tommy looked around at the faces. Polly was smiling over the top of her wine glass, leaning back to speak to Michael, Leonard showing Karl a carved wooden horse, Finn and John sniggering together over some undoubtedly crude joke, glancing at the door Tessa had just closed, Arthur’s face lit by the flames that caught the liquid in the bottle he was swigging like the fire was inside the glass, Esme speaking soothingly to the baby in her arms, and Tommy was suddenly terrified. _ All of this could be gone. All of it, in an instant, in a bang, _he thought, even as he reached out to accept the bottle being passed to him by Arthur. He saw horses dying, men dying, bullets flying into the ground and sending up dirt like tiny little meteorites, machine guns gleaming a deadly silver through a dull, flat mist, saw Tessa standing on a green hill in a white dress covered in the brightest red. He took a deep pull right out of the bottle, and passed it to Michael, and maybe the fire had gotten trapped inside it after all, because it burned like lit petrol going down his throat. He stood, ignoring the curious looks from his family and the distrustful glare from Leonard, rising to his feet and striding out of the room after Tessa, ignoring Arthur’s voice calling his name. He made his way down the handsome oak halls, darkened by the night, lamps pooling light in increments on the floor like they were leaking golden light, his steps loud and fast and echoing as the noise of the dining room faded behind him. He walked briskly to the kitchen, and maybe he hadn’t breathed while doing it, because when he entered he sucked in air at the sight of Tessa, safe, giggling with Rose, who was seated at the wooden slab table, her feet swinging off the chair, her tiny hands wrapped around a mug of warm milk. Tessa looked up when he entered, a question written in the furrow of her brows, and she took in his expression for a moment before she said quietly to Rose, 

“How about you go show your mum what Indian princesses drink, love?” In a voice that gave no inclination that it was a command rather than a suggestion, and Rose grinned with a gap-toothed smile, hopping off the stool eagerly. Tessa was good with children. He didn’t know if she wanted them. He didn’t even know if he wanted them. It had never been something he considered, or something he would have the time for, in any case. 

“Look what I ‘ave, Uncle Tommy!” Rose said, holding up her cup and almost sloshing it on the floor. 

“I see it,” Tommy acknowledged. “You go show your mother now, sweetheart. I need to talk to Tessa for a moment,” and as he said the words, his throat felt like it was constricting, because Tessa was looking at him, and she was so beautiful, and so alive, and he should get her away from all of this, from him, from everything, but he was too selfish, too selfish to push her away, to shove her to safety with his hands covered in blood he could never wash off. Rose looked at him for a moment, her dark eyes wide, and then seemed to decide she didn’t find him terribly interesting, and scampered back through the door. But Tessa was still watching him, brushing her long fingers back and forth across her flushed lips. He moved to the table, spread his hands on it and braced on them, wanting his opium, wanting his gun. Tessa stood and walked to his side, smelling like nectar, like sunlight and apple trees, despite having spent the day working with her horse. She laid her head on his shoulder, not speaking, her breaths even and soft in the silent, warm room, and Tommy caught his mind like an animal in a trap, caught it and wrung its neck, snapped the spine of his thoughts, the creeping, crawling blackness that lived in his chest and crawled up the back of his neck. Tunnels in the darkness. Gunshots and screaming and grenades blowing in the darkness. An old, abandoned farmhouse in the darkness. The sharp smell of gunpowder in his nose and the coppery taste of blood in his mouth. He breathed in, twice, quickly and quietly, his whitening knuckles on the table the only indication of the war that raged, that always raged, that he fought against, that sometimes won. Tessa rubbed his back, slowly. She didn’t speak, maybe because she didn’t know what to say, and he turned his head to look at her, to catalogue her features and commit them to memory, so that if he died in the next few weeks he could remember them in perfect detail in his last seconds. Her lashes fluttered when she blinked, the faint smattering of freckles across her nose, her porcelain skin smooth and soft-looking in the low light. He was so close he could see the peach fuzz on her cheeks, the golden ring around her pupils, the marks on her plush lips where she had bitten them anxiously over the past few days. He pressed his mouth to hers suddenly, without any real thought or warning, because he didn’t know how many more times he would be able to, scared and hungry, her lips parting in surprise and then because he nudged them open with his own, his hand coming up to cup her face. He heard her breathing hitch as he sucked her bottom lip into his mouth and grazed it against his teeth, the same spot she had been biting with her own, felt her respond as he pressed her back against the table, her body melding against his, soft and warm. 

“Tommy, what are you,” she made a small, stifled noise as he moved his lips to her graceful neck, left exposed by her pinned hair, “doing?” she finished asking, and her scent was all around him, her pulse beating against his mouth, quicker with every press of his lips. 

“What does it look like I’m doing?” he asked her softly, in her ear, feeling her shiver against him as he kissed her earlobe, her jaw, trailed them down to her collarbone. 

“There are maids,” she said, “and children.” 

“Mm hmm,” he said, in agreement, slipping his hand under her blouse to touch the bare skin of her back, because he needed it, needed to feel her, to know she was real and alive and safe, to bury himself in her until he was safely six feet under the warmth of her skin. 

“Someone could walk in at any moment,” Tessa said, her voice and resolve wavering, and he braced her against him with the palm he had pressed to her back and slid his other around her thigh to lift her onto the table, easily, standing between her legs and moving his hand up to grip her hip and shift her closer to him, pressing his mouth to hers again. Kissing her felt like an act of contrition, like confessing to all of his sins, like absolution, like kneeling at an altar and feeling the glory of god flow through him. She arched against him, her lips sweet and her mouth soft and slick, her tongue flicking past his teeth for a moment as she moved her hand up behind his head, her nails scratching slightly against his skull. 

“And I smell like horses,” she continued, her lips millimeters from his own, her quick breaths ghosting across them like they were sharing the same air. 

“And your family will be wondering where we went,” she said, and he scoffed. 

“So let’s stop,” he suggested, squeezing his fingers, gripping his under hand under her jaw so that he could tilt her face up for a better angle, so that he could slide deeper into her mouth, and she whined in the back of her throat, pressing her chest tight against him, her hand pulling on the material of the front of his shirt, fingers bunching the fabric. He moved his hands behind her shoulders to shrug her expensive brown suede jacket off, and she helped pull it from her arms and discarded it onto the table behind her. He trailed his fingers up the inside of her parted thighs, her riding pants tight against legs, and she shifted them farther apart for him, inviting, her chest rising with her panting breaths. 

“No,” she said, as he ghosted his fingertips down the warm crux between her legs over her clothes, then up again, pressing down slightly at the top. “No. Don’t stop.”

Her words flooded his brain and his cock, a rush of lust that made him shiver with pent need, and he stepped back. 

“Take off your shoes,” he told her, and she met his eyes, her dark pupils blown, breathing sharply through her nose, and he had to clasp his hands behind his back to stop himself from touching her again. She obeyed, reaching over to unlace her boots, yanking them off and dropping them to the floor with two dull thuds. His blood was pumping through him with a throbbing urgency, and he moved forward again to kiss her, and she tasted like crystalized oranges, like candied flowers, like sparkling, shining gold, like wealth. He gripped the top of her pants and tugged them down over her ass, and she leaned back on her hands and braced herself so that she could lift her hips wordlessly, letting him pull them past her thighs, her knickers and stockings a cream shade only a few darker than her smooth ivory skin. He kissed her once more, the soft press of her lips so good, so wonderful, too good and too wonderful for a man like him. He came nowhere close to deserving her, but he did not deserve any of the things he had taken, and he would take her as well, whenever and wherever he wanted, as long as he could because fuck if he wasn’t going to take absolute advantage of all those things he didn’t deserve. He knelt between her legs, pressing his lips against the wetness seeping through her underwear, stroking her teasingly with his fingers over the lace. She shivered but then held still, her thighs trembling ever so slightly around his ears, gripping the edge of the table tightly, the stone floor of the kitchen hard and cold under his knees but her body burning to the touch. He tugged on her knickers and pulled them off, down her legs, letting them fall to the floor. She flinched at the touch of the cool table on her bare skin, and he slid his hands up her thighs, appreciating the way her flesh molded around the press of his fingers, the view of her wanting, panting, exposed and waiting for him, and then he pressed his mouth against her and heard her stifle a moan. He hummed slightly against her, letting her taste coat his tongue, tangy and sweet like lemonade, wet and smooth against his lips, burying his face between her legs and lapping his tongue up and down a few times, coming back up to circle her clit, to press against it slightly with his teeth. She sucked her bottom lip into her mouth to muffle her sounds, her arms shaking as she braced them behind her on the table, still sitting up, watching him, and he glanced up at her, at the tendrils of red that were escaping and curling down over her shoulders, and locked onto her eyes as he slid a finger inside of her, curling it up against her. She made a high, keening noise, and fell back down onto her elbows, her head dropping back, and he used his free hand to grip the curving bone of her hip to pull her closer to his mouth, to put more pressure on his finger, adding another. She was hot and tight around him, clenching with the movements of his tongue, she was everywhere, in his ears and in his nose and his mouth and his head and his heart, overpowering like opium, like the ocean surrounding him, pulling him under in its current, and he let himself be swept away, pushing her to the edge and slowing, edging and flowing, letting the pleasure build and recede until she was shaking, her thighs trembling, lying flat on her back and helplessly searching for something to grip with her hands, pressing her lips together to stop her screams. And then he licked her faster, the power and control that her immediate response gave him making his head swim, until she was coming apart under his mouth, clenching around his fingers, her muscles tight and shivering and her noises involuntarily escaping, her moans echoing through the silent room. He let her rest for a moment, giving her another soft kiss, even the gentle press of his lips making her jerk, and then stood, licking his lips. Her eyes were closed and her smooth cheeks flushed, her lips parted and panting. He undid the buttons on his vest slowly, then the top of his pants, and took out his cock, stiff and throbbing in his hand, pressed it against her dripping entrance. Tessa smirked slightly and sat up with a bit of a wobble, kissing him softly, tasting herself on his mouth. He pressed inside and she sucked a breath in through her teeth, which became a moan as he thrust again, the feeling of her squeezing around him driving him on, driving him deeper, his fingers gripping her thighs, her ass, tangling in her hair. Her sounds increased, and he pressed his palm over her lips, quieting them, fucking her harder, feeling her hot breath and stifled moans under his hand. She squeezed his arm, through his shirt, trying to tell him but unable to speak with his hand over her mouth, but he knew, because he could feel the tension inside her building, so wet it was dripping down his thigh. She came again with a shout that was only slightly quieted, and he took his hand away to brace himself on the table as he followed, the surging shock of pleasure igniting his body and brain and world until his mind was completely blank but for the explosion of it, wiping out all other thoughts and sensations, lights bursting behind his eyes. He came down, panting, resting his head on her shoulder, her slim fingers trailing across the back of his neck, brushing over his hair. 

“Better?” she asked, and he nodded slightly against her, his forehead pressed against her blouse, breathing her in. Tessa kissed his head softly. 

“Can we please eat now?” she asked, and he snorted. 

  
  


They returned carrying plates of food provided by Frances, who Tommy had a feeling had heard what was going on in the kitchen and knowingly turned the lock to prevent them from being disturbed. _ Such a thoughtful woman _, Tommy mused, as Tessa walked languidly down the halls with her fork already in her mouth, shooting him a sharp glare when she caught him raise his eyebrows at her. 

“What? I’m _ hungry,” _she said, and he lifted a hand in surrender, his other holding the plate. “You’re not going to complain about me eating in various areas around your house, spilling all over your Persian rugs?” 

“The house is half yours. And they’re Oriental rugs,” Tommy corrected automatically, speaking before he had really considered his words, which was extremely unlike him. She did that to him often, surprised him with her ability to draw out his thoughts without the usual layer of careful consideration painted over them. Her eyes snapped up to meet his, her face carefully blank. 

“Is it?” she asked, flippantly, popping a piece of potato into her mouth. 

“Is what?” he dodged, even though he already knew. 

“The house. Is it half mine?” 

He wished he wasn’t holding a plate in one hand so that he could have dug out his cigarettes, but as it was, he just kept walking, kept his expression neutral. 

“The lower half, maybe. The cellars and maid’s rooms, you know. That sort of thing.” She glared at him and Tommy gave a tiny smirk, and he thought she probably would have yelled at him despite the telltale sparks of amusement glittering behind her eyes, had she not been raised with strict instructions to never open your mouth while eating. She held her fork in a refined, delicate way speaking of years of etiquette school, and pointed it at him accusingly at him, it’s prongs as sharp as her humor. 

“Just for that, I’m not going to let you fuck me anymore,” she said, pacing past him with her small, straight nose in the air, but a smile on her face, and he swatted the top of her ass with the back of his hand as she passed so smartly that she squeaked. 

“Ah, well. It was good while it lasted,” Tommy said nonchalantly, catching up to her as they reached the door of the dining room, and she laughed and shoved him through, her eyes alight and her pink lips parted to show her pearly teeth. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Smut in the second chapter?? I'm not even making you guys work for it anymore  
Also, they refer to Native Americans as Indians in this because of the time period, but we Do Not Do That in real life  
Am I giving you some fluff to reread after shit hits the fan in the upcoming chapters??? we may never know


	3. White Flower

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> White flower take it easy, easy, easy on me   
Come on, break me open   
Let me taste your poison, mama forgive me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Polly and Leonard have a conversation. Was that an actual summary, for once? who am I wow

They returned together, with a peal of Tessa’s laughter, and Polly no longer had to wonder where they had gone. Tessa’s hair, which had been up, was now tumbling around her shoulders in thick, tousled waves of red as bright as her laugh, and the crease that had been marked between Tommy’s eyes before he left the room was gone, the steel behind his eyes diminished somewhat, receding completely when he looked at her, when she stood on her toes to whisper something in his ear, her hand slipping down to squeeze his larger one. They were a handsome couple, but Polly wouldn’t have cared much if Tessa had two horns growing out of her head, long as she could make Tommy’s eyes look like that, like they had before France, even if for only a moment. They sat together, ignoring the gazes being shot at them from around the room, or unaware of them, Tessa talking about her horse and Tommy nodding a he ate, his free hand tracing mindless patterns on her knee. Polly stood and crossed the room to sit beside Leonard, who was in his wheelchair with Karl snoozing gently on his chest, the boy’s face soft and youthful in the firelight, free of worries or cares. Polly pulled out her cloves, snapped the case closed again, sitting with her legs crossed on one of Tommy’s richly embroidered cushions. Leonard glanced down at her, but like a true politician, waited for her to speak first, betraying none of his inner thoughts. Polly lit her cigarette and breathed it in, the heady smoke drifting out in a precise stream. 

“Haven’t seen him like this since before the war,” she said, gazing across the room at Tommy as he took the amber bottle being passed to him by Michael, his legs stretched out, Tessa’s firey head resting in his lap. Leonard grunted ambiguously, and Polly turned her stare to him instead, taking in his appearance, comparing him inwardly to his daughter. He was good looking for his age, but Tessa must bear closer resemblance to her mother, because they had different noses and very different hair, although their eyes were the same, a dark, swirling kind of gray. 

“Did you fight?” Polly asked the older man, and he frowned a bit and shook his head. 

“No,” he replied, in his distinguished voice, keeping his words soft over Karl’s sleeping head. “I was already Chief of Medicine of Ignatius Hospital in London by the time the war started.” 

“So you don’t know what it does to people,” Polly observed, and Leonard scoffed. 

“What better way to experience the horrors of war than by stitching up its victims?” he asked, and Polly shrugged. 

“By being one of those victims,” she said, and he made a face of grudging admittance. “It’s not the physical wounds that do it.”

“Do what?” Leonard asked, glancing down at Karl’s dozing form, a furrow between his brows. 

“Turn men into monsters,” Polly responded, watching Tessa sit up to take a pull from the bottle of whiskey, her eyes not really seeing the scene in front of them, but instead remembering going to the train station to collect Tommy after he was discharged, remembering the way her chest clenched with something tight and cold like fear when she saw his face, his eyes shining out of their sockets like sapphires in a skull, just bone and blue. 

“So you admit he’s a monster, then?” Leonard prompted, and Polly met his eyes unabashedly, pursing her lips around her cigarette. 

“Mr. Reilly, we’re all monsters,” she said, letting her words hang in the air for a few moments like the smoke from her lungs. His forehead was crinkled, his eyebrows still dark, despite his gray hair. She offered him her cigarette, and there was a frozen pause between them before, to her great surprise, he accepted it and took a small puff. 

“So you approve of it, then?” he asked, gesturing at Tommy and Tessa with the smoke he was still holding between his fingers like a cigar. Polly smirked and Tessa laughed again across the room, as Finn tipped another bottle of mild, his eyes wide, as he tried to keep pace with Arthur, who was taking deep pulls from the whiskey like it was water. 

“Neither of them give a fuck about my approval,” she said, but Leonard shook his head. 

“I don’t think that’s true. Shelby seems to.” She shot him a look that said  _ Which Shelby? _ and he corrected himself. “Thomas.” 

“Well, he would never admit it, in any case,” Polly said, reaching for her cigarette back, and Leonard leaned down from his chair to pass it to her, his hands deft and surgical. 

“You didn’t answer my question,” he said, and she just smiled coyly. 

“I know.” She handed the cigarette back to him. 

“He’ll get her killed.” The smoke billowed from his stately nose in two streams, and his face was clouded with worry, his eyes flickering with the light of the fire. Polly understood. 

“What would her mother say?” she asked, and he winced almost imperceptibly and then shook his head again. 

“Truth be told, I’ve no idea. If I had been better at predicting what it was Amelia wanted, perhaps she wouldn’t have moved to another country and taken our daughter with her.” Polly blinked, taken aback and rather impressed by his blunt truth. 

“So why did she?” she asked, but he just stared across the room with a faraway look in his eyes, and said, 

“What happened to his parents?” 

Polly sighed. There was no use telling him, not really, but that didn’t mean she was keen to have the conversation. “Both dead.”

“How?” 

“His father was shot. Mother killed herself when he was a boy.” 

Something that was either pity or alarm flickered across his lined face. “Every time I learn something new about this family...,” he said, rather venomously, but Polly recognized the fear under the acid of his words, and so let her expression convey her threat, rather than her voice, or her gun. 

“Tommy didn’t ask for the lot he was given. And he’s built himself an empire with it,” she said, defensively, because some part of her still saw him as the small, skinny boy with huge blue eyes who used to hide under the stairs and jump out at those descending them, laughing his head off at their resulting fright. 

“Yes, Tessa said he bought her a rather expensive new horse,” Leonoard said, like that didn’t impress him much, but then, he had always had money, so why should it?

“He did. Starchaser, I think they named it. She’s in the stables, you ought to visit her.”

“Can’t ride horses anymore. Seeing them just reminds me of it.” There was an undercurrent of pain in his voice, a pain that Polly felt rather dim for not fully acknowledging. He stroked Karl’s smooth brown hair absently. “Was he trying to bribe her?” he asked Polly, like he would trust her answer, like he trusted her to answer. 

“Look at them, Leonard,” Polly said, instead, and Leonard’s eyes travelled slightly resentfully over to his daughter, in the arms of a gangster, who was looking down at her with as she talked animatedly, fluttering her slim hands with her words, Tommy twirling a strand of her hair in his fingers. 

“Will he get her killed, Mrs. Gray?” Leonard asked again, looking older, in that moment, than he usually did, looking his true age. Polly stared at him, and sipped her wine, and didn’t answer. 

  
  



	4. Chocolate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh we go where nobody knows  
With guns hidden under our petticoats  
Yeah we're dressed in black from head to toe  
And we're never gonna quit it, no we're never gonna quit it, no

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is...... another happy chapter...... I am having an identity crisis or something I must be

They had been playing a game to see who could take their pistol apart and put it back together the fastest, but Arthur and John had lost and were sour over it, and Tessa didn’t even bother competing, knowing the inevitable outcome would be her required to drain her glass, despite all the afternoons she had spent with Benson at the Reilly estate, going over target practice and correct techniques. They had moved on from that hyper-masculine pastime, because Tommy held a gun like it was an extension of his arm and took it apart like it was a child’s tower made of wooden blocks, so Tessa had suggested a new game, and now Tommy was losing, because every other member of the circle was plotting overtly against him, as retribution. 

“A’right, drink if… you have blue eyes,” Esme commanded, proudly, fluttering her lashes to show off her dark brown irises. The brothers and Michael all groaned, but drank obediently, John hissing through his teeth after his swig from the bottle he was holding and then pointing at Tessa accusingly. 

“Oi! She’s got blue eyes too! Not fair!” His words were slurred slightly, which made Tessa laugh. 

“They’re green,” Tommy said, mindlessly, staring down at and swirling his whiskey in his crystal glass with a lack of coordination Tessa had never seen. 

“I’ll drink anyway,” she said, tipping her glass appeasingly and swallowing the burning contents, “just to even the field, because I’m kicking your lot’s asses.”

“Asses,” John said, mimicking her accent. “It’s not a _ competition,” _ he whined, still upset about losing the game that had actually _ been _a competition, and Tessa tossed a chocolate at him from the bowl she had been eating out of. It hit him directly in the forehead, and he said, “Bloody hell! Fine, drink if you just threw a chocolate at someone!” 

Tessa smiled. “That’s cheating,” she said, but drank again anyway. 

“Drink if you ever purchased a horse just because it matched your hair,” Tommy said, a little mumbled, and Tessa made a face at him. 

“I didn’t buy him for _ myself, _my father did, and I hope you know that means you’ll have to drink too.” 

“What?” He asked, his eyes snapping open, astonished, propping himself up on his elbow where he laid to stare at her as John cackled and Arthur snorted. 

“I’ve seen your stallion. Dangerous,” she said. “More like Black Beauty.” She unwrapped another chocolate, biting her lip to hide her smirk. 

“I did not fucking buy me fucking horse because I wanted to match my hair,” Thomas said, like that was the most absurd accusation he had ever heard in his life, and John hooted with laughter. 

“Mm,” Tessa said, shaking her head with false gravity. “But we can’t really know that, can we? Drink up, Mr. Shelby.” 

Tommy shook his head and grumbled, but took another sip, and if Tessa’s eyes followed his throat as he swallowed, well. Who could blame her? 

“Drink if you can piss standing up,” Esme said, and they had been going in a circle, taking turns, but that had long since turned into whoever could come up with a statement the fastest. Arthur pulled a face and drank, but John said obtrusively, 

“Hang on, hang on a minute. You said if we _ can _piss standing up. You can too!” 

“Fine. If you _ do _piss standing up, which we don’t.” She met Tessa’s eyes over the fading fire in the center of their group, the shallow ceramic vase now covered in soot. Tessa raised her glass to her in comradery. “And stop fucking arguing with everything, John, it won’t stop you losing.” 

“Tommy’s losing,” John muttered, and Tommy plucked a chocolate from Tessa’s bowl and threw it at him without looking, hitting him in the head. 

“Drink if you’ve ever shit on a chicken,” Arthur said, proudly, and John’s cheeks turned a bright pink, frowning aggressively at his brother. 

“What?” Esme asked, lighting up and looking like Christmas had come early, and John said, 

“I didn’t _ see it, _alright, I’ve told you a thousand fucking times-,”

“John Boy was in the outhouse, chicken had gotten in somehow. Fell through the hole. Bet it preferred that hole to the one sat over it like the fucking second coming,” Arthur said, grinning, and Tommy laughed, his deep voice made softer by the sound, and Tessa tilted her head back to smile at him, lying on the ground like a child instead of a grown man who could dis-and-reassemble a gun in the time it took most people to say their morning prayers. 

“Fucking sat right underneath me, just floating around, then it fucking clucked, scared the shit out of me, literally,” John said, and Tessa pressed her hand to her mouth as she laughed. 

“Did you get it _ out?” _she asked, appalled, and Tommy said, 

“The shit or the chicken?” which made all of the men laugh again, and Tessa rolled her eyes. 

“The chicken, you twat.” 

“Ah, yeah. Fished him out eventually. Served him at dinner on New Years that year, d’you remember, Arthur? Ada had a fucking fit when she found out.” 

“Jesus Christ,” Tessa said, still smiling, even though the mention of Ada made her miss her suddenly, made her want her there, talking and laughing with them. But she was safe, kept safe and kept away, and that was better. 

“Drink if your last name is Shelby,” Michael said, gesturing to the brothers and Esme with his glass. Esme drank regretfully, like she was putting on a show of wishing it wasn’t true, but Arthur said, “That’s right, boys! To the Shelby’s!” and took an eager swig, clinking his quarter-full bottle against John’s, who pressed a kiss to his wife’s cheek to appease her for stealing her maiden name. 

“If the fascists come for us right now, we’re all fucked,” Arthur said, half serious, half entertained, taking another pull from his bottle even though no one had instructed him to. 

“Speak for yourself,” Tommy said, laying his arm over his eyes where he was sprawled on the floor. 

“That right, Tom? You wanna stand up and prove it?” John asked from his chair, Esme perched in his lap, shaking a fist at Tommy, who couldn’t see it because of his covered eyes. 

“No,” he said, shortly, and John laughed victoriously, like that was just as good as winning the fight. 

“Drink if you’ve fucked more people than are currently in the room,” Michael said, confidently, and Tessa saw Esme do a quick head count before sipping her wine, but Arthur and John didn’t even hesitate before raising their bottles, and Tommy sat up with a groan before draining the whiskey that remained in his glass, meeting Tessa’s gaze over the top of hers, his eyebrows lifted slightly. Michael sat smugly, the only one of them who hadn’t been made to drink, but Tessa had a feeling that in two more years with the Shelby Company Limited, that situation would change. 

“Good one, Michael. More whiskey, Tommy!” Arthur said, pouring some of his bottle into Tommy’s empty crystal tumbler, and Tommy said, 

“Fuck off,” but accepted the glass back and remained sitting, leaning back on his hands, his rings glinting in the light from the embers. Tessa had never asked what they signified, why he wore them. 

“Drink if you’ve ever kissed a woman,” John said, and everyone in the room drank, which made him peer at the side of his wife’s flushed face. “I should’ve figured,” he muttered, before drinking as well, digging his own grave into the whiskey. 

“High society know you’re running ‘round kissing birds, Tess?” Arthur called to her. “She’s wilder than I’d’ve thought, Tommy. Good for you, mate.”

“You and me both, brother,” Tommy said, appraising Tessa again. She told herself her blush was a result of the drink, her vision pleasantly warm and blurry, the golden embers of the fire filtering and stretching in her eyes. “Chicago just that lacking, eh?” He asked, and she smiled. 

“No. The girls are just that pretty,” she said, and Esme whooped, raising her cup in a toast. John laughed incredulously, but there was a hard, dangerous look in Tommy’s eyes, and he leaned forward to speak quietly against her ear. 

“Well, you’re mine now,” he said, his voice sending goosebumps down her arms, shivers down the back of her neck, his breath smelling like whiskey and chocolate. “No men, no women. No matter how pretty.” 

Tessa chuckled softly and fought to keep her voice even, but not down. “Don’t worry, baby. You’re still lovelier than all of them put together.” 

“Ooooh!” John said, loudly, pointing at them like a child at an airplane flying overhead. 

“She’s right, ya know, Tom. You’re lucky nobody’s ever mistaken _ you _for a lady,” Arthur said, and Tommy rolled his icy eyes, framed by long black lashes like butterfly legs, which only served to punctate his brother’s point, all sharp angles and full, pink lips. 

“You’re welcome to be the first, Arthur. Come on, give us a kiss,” he said, lunging at Arthur, who jerked back so quickly he spilled some of his whiskey, flailing his arms to prevent Tommy’s approach, Tessa and Esme’s laughter travelling through the room. Polly and Leonard had long since retired to bed, and Finn had been banned from participating in the drinking games, cut off from his limited supply of mild, which made him troop sourly to his room. 

“Go kiss bloody Tessa!” Arthur shouted, pushing Tommy’s shoulder and scrambling backwards wildly, gripping his bottle desperately. Tommy looked back and shot Tessa a glance, and she grinned and blew a kiss at him. 

“I’ll do it if you won’t, Tom,” John said, which made Esme elbow him in the side. “Jesus, woman, I’m only joking!” he said, but Tommy glared at him anyway, rolling over back to Tessa’s side, sitting up and brushing her cheek softly with his knuckles before dipping his mouth down to hers, an arrogant display, but one that Tessa enjoyed nevertheless, his mouth hotter and less controlled than she was used to, and she threaded her fingers into his soft, dark hair, too drunk on whiskey or his touch to care about the several sets of eyes watching them, until Arthur said, 

“Alright, alright, there’s children present!” Jerking his chin in Michael’s direction as Tommy pulled back, a smug smirk on his plush mouth, and Michael scoffed before gesturing between Tessa and Tommy with his glass, significantly less inebriated than the rest of them. 

“So what’s this, then?” He asked, and the warm room seemed to grow colder. It certainly became quieter, as John observed the interaction like a tennis match, his eyes whipping back and forth, and Arthur winced slightly. 

“What is what?” Tommy asked, pulling out a cigarette from the case in his pocket and flicking open his lighter. 

“Has the king found his queen?” Michael asked, a bit sardonically, but Tommy just observed him silently as he spoke, suddenly still. 

“Something like that,” he said, filtering the smoke out between his teeth and into his nose, and Arthur said, “Huh,” and then, “Well, I’ll drink to that,” and he raised his bottle, which was almost empty. 

“You’ll drink to anything, Arthur,” John scoffed, but he tipped his bottle obligingly as well, and Tessa met Michael’s eyes, his face handsome and young and clean and wary. 

“Ah, Mikey, you don’t need to worr’ about ‘er,” Arthur said, his words dropping syllables off the end like spare change. “She’s part of this family now, too. Crazy as Tommy, and twice as pretty.” He winked at her as he downed his bottle, and Tessa smirked at him, then turned her gaze back to Michael, who was still studying her. After another moment, he said, 

“Alright then. Drink if you’ve ever slept with Tommy,” and then he smiled at her, only slightly, and she shook her head but then knocked it back to drain her glass, shivering at the burn it sent down her throat and blooming across her chest. 

“Fucking hell,” Tommy said, scoffing. Then he said, “although, now that you mention it,” and he stood, somewhat unsteadily, offering Tessa his hand, a challenge in his eyes. Her cheeks were starting to ache from smiling, and she accepted his help, clambering to her swaying feet. Tommy ran his eyes slowly up and down her body, then smacked his lips and addressed the rest of the room. “Right,” he said. “Be seeing you all.” 

Arthur laughed, and John whooped, and Michael pelted them with chocolates as Tommy led her by the hand from the room, her laughter bouncing off the walls. 

  
  



	5. Arabella

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And her lips are like the galaxy's edge  
And her kiss the color of a constellation falling into place  
My days end best when this sunset gets itself  
Behind that little lady sitting on the passenger side  
It's much less picturesque without her catching the light  
The horizon tries but it's just not as kind on the eyes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HI BABIES I'M SO SORRY I'VE BEEN GONE FOR FOREVER I was traveling over the holidays and then I got horrendously sick, of course, but I am feeling better and have missed you all so much! I hope you all had a lovely December and that the first few days of the New Year have been treating you well <3

He slid his mouth against hers the moment they walked through the door of his bedroom, which he kicked shut behind them, his movements lacking their usual sense of deft purpose and instead driven on hungrily, hastily, threading his fingers against the back of her head and into her hair, but she stepped back, away from the soft, inviting press of his lips, out of the reach of his strong hands, which hovered in the air around the space she had occupied, a physical question alongside the quirk of Tommy’s eyebrow. 

“Lie down,” she told him, and he dropped his hands and tilted his head, observing her, but did not move.  _ So this is where Star gets it from,  _ Tessa thought, her thoughts muted like watercolor, swirling and blending in her mind. “Go on,” she said, “Lie down.” 

He did, slowly, his eyes locked on hers as he backed up to the bed, leaning back on his elbows against the plush mattress, his strong jaw angled upwards to look up at her impassively, waiting. 

“Shirt off,” she told him, taking a few steps closer, but staying out of arms reach. He  _ tsked.  _

“Mm. That’s your job,” he refused, steepling his fingers and staring at her in the way that made her feel like he could see right through her, that gave her a powerful, heady rush like her snow did, that made her want to run and hide or at least look away. She did neither. She crossed her arms. 

“Take your shirt off, Thomas,” she told him, in as firm a tone as she could through her numb lips. He blinked his beautiful eyes, sighed, and then slipped his suspenders off his shoulders, began undoing his buttons and unrolled his sleeves, his vest long since discarded in the revelry. It struck Tessa again how lovely he was, how harmoniously his eclectic features came together, a study of contrasts, color and shade, danger and softness. He shrugged his shirt off and tossed mindlessly to the edge of the bed in front of Tessa, and she realized she had been staring when she processed his expression, somehow both arrogant and unsure, like he couldn’t tell what she was after but was certain in his ability to provide it. She moved onto the bed and then his lap, revelling in the warm, firm press of his body underneath her, but slapped his hands away and pushed him onto his back against the mattress when he tried to slide his palms up her thighs. He grunted indignantly, and she placed a quick, placating kiss to his mouth as an apology, forcing herself not to linger against his lips. She trailed downward, her mouth against his neck, the skin supple and smooth, ever so slightly rough along his jaw from his stubble scratching against her cheek. She pressed open-mouthed kisses, sucking slightly, feeling the rise and fall of his chest with his breathing under her, the way his inhales made his collarbones more prominent, all the better for her to bite. The press of her teeth against him prompted a small growl in the back of his throat and he attempted to touch her again, but she caught his larger wrists in her tight grip, letting her nails dig in slightly. 

“Don’t move,” she told him, and he blinked at her, slowly, eyebrows raised and lips parted slightly, and she expected him to argue, to flip her on her back as easily as a pancake in a skillet, but he lifted his hands in surrender and made a face of invitation. A challenge. All of his expressions were varying degrees of challenge,  _ look me in the eye,  _ they said.  _ I dare you to.  _ He was a gambling man because he was a bet himself, a coin toss, a flip switch, a wager on what was really going on behind those eyes like ice. She put her mouth back onto his skin and it made her veins thrum with something like lightning, like touching him was catching it in a bottle, sparkling and electric and blue and alive. She smoothed a palm up his bare chest and breathed him in and it was dancing on the edge of a cliff with your hands in the air and no breath in your lungs, and his skin was taunt over his muscles, smooth like marble except for his scars. 

“What’s this from?” Tessa asked, brushing her lips over the raised lines on his left shoulder. He didn’t answer her, threading his fingers into the thick hair at the base of her neck. “Tom?”, she said, quietly, and he sighed shortly. 

“A bullet,” he said, his voice deep and closed, like he didn’t want to discuss it, didn’t want to think about it. She could hardly blame him, but her own selfish curiosity overruled any restraint that would have prevented her from forcing him to dredge up past pain. 

“Whose bullet?” she asked, trailing her fingers up his side and pressing her mouth to his neck again, just below his ear. 

“A dead man,” he told her, his chin tilting subconsciously upward to allow her lips better access to his skin, and she dipped her fingertips ever so slightly past the waistband of his pants. 

“Dead by you?” she asked, and he didn’t answer, which was answer enough. She squeezed her other hand around his bicep, feeling it flex and flutter, feeling the scar across it. She knew where that one was from. She had been present for it. An abandoned farmhouse in the dark of the night, a shootout in a kitchen, shots cracking through the building like thunder rolling. She touched his cheek. 

“This one?” 

“Italian knuckles.” 

“And this?” One above his heart. 

“German knives.”

“What about your tattoos?” 

“What about ‘em?” he asked, deflecting either because he didn’t desire to be having a conversation, or he didn’t desire to have this particular one. 

“What do they mean? Or stand for?” 

“Who says they stand for anything?” He countered, rolling his head to the side, his eyes still closed. Tessa thought that perhaps it was the whiskey making her brave, but she hardly had a lack of spine sober, so perhaps it was only serving to make her foolish. She rocked her hips against his where she was straddling him, slid her nails down his side hard enough to draw blood. He winced very barely and turned his face again, opened his eyes to look at her, his gaze unfocused and still piercing, somehow, like she was afraid the haze would lift the veil instead of become it, like he would be able to see more of her through the honesty gifted by the alcohol instead of less, and she wanted, more than anything, to be the one in control, the one with the stone walls and frozen iron eyes, to not be vulnerable and exposed and he was the only one, the only thing that ever made her feel that way. She thought about meeting him in the hospital, how somehow, even lying in a bed with bullet wounds, he had made her entire world tilt and shift and it had never and could never be righted again after that moment, and she ground against him again, felt the responsive tightening in her pelvis from the friction, felt the rest of the room and the house and the world slip away. She leaned down to kiss him and sucked his full bottom lip into her mouth, drew it between her teeth, let him part her lips with the press of his tongue. 

“Tell me,” she asked, against his soft mouth, breathing in his scent, sharp and dark, the skin of his chest warm under her hands. He sighed, his breath ghosting across her lips, whether in defeat or because of the movement of her hips, she did not know. 

“They’re military,” he said, which she had already gathered. She pressed down, moved in a slow, languid circle against his hard cock. 

“Mm hmm,” she said, encouragingly, sucking on the spot where his neck met his shoulder, tense against her lips, hard enough to leave a mark. His breath shuddered slightly. 

“This is the Roma Chakra,” he told her, his voice deep and rough, touching the rising sun on his chest underneath her idily, skimming his fingers down her arm and gripping her ass before she slapped him away. “Thirteen rays for the men in my regiment. The 179. The one on me left arm’s for the Small Heath Rifles, the one on me right’s for the Somme.” She rested her forehead on his shoulder for a moment and stayed quiet, combing her fingers through the top of his hair, feeling it slip between them like silk, her mind like water, her thoughts like shimmering fish flickering through it. He spoke again, which took her altogether by surprise. She had been certain he had said everything he would say on the subject, certain she had gotten everything she could get out of him regarding it. 

“I was a tunneler,” he told her, in a voice that indicated he had said as such so many times that the words no longer held any real meaning for him. “They had us dig under enemy lines and lay explosives there. Course, the Germans caught on, started doing the same fucking thing. They came and asked us to do it because we were from Birmingham. Lots of miners. Told us we could lay the treasure instead of searching for it.” He shook his head, a little, she felt it against her cheek. “Dynamite diamonds. An easy dream to sell to men who had never dug for anything but coal.” He breathed in and closed his eyes again, kept talking like once he started, he didn’t know how to stop. “I enlisted because I killed a man and his family was after me. I don’t know. Maybe he lived.” She wanted to ask why he had done it, but she couldn’t interrupt, could hardly believe what she was hearing, that she was hearing it. “I left three days later. Arthur came with me. John. Freddie. Jerimiah. Danny. Barney. We all left at once.” He said their names like he was reciting a benediction. “Polly took us to the train station and we were sent to basic in Eastbourne, then deployed to Dunkirk. Then Arthur and John were sent to Gallipoli, and they asked me would I volunteer to help with a covert mission. Said I showed promise. And I said yes.” His eyes closed and he breathed in deeply, looking like the room was spinning behind his eyes, and maybe it was. Tessa watched his face and kept the emotions off hers, even though he couldn’t see them, kept herself silent and still, tried to keep her breathing quiet and even. “I was supposed to die. It took months to dig the tunnels. Sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn’t. Sometimes the German tunnels would intersect with our own and we would fight each other under the ground until a few of us were left on whatever side to drag ourselves out. Sometimes my men would just… fall over. Not get back up.” His words were quiet, barely above a whisper, his lovely, full pink lips and white teeth moving softly, his voice oddly, darkly hypnotic, the horrifying picture they painted so vivid, and for a second, a flash, Tessa saw his smooth, clean face covered in mud and blood, his hands calloused from weilding a pick, clothed in rags instead of expensive suits. Then she blinked, and it was gone, and he was speaking again. His eyes remained closed but they were squeezed shut, like he couldn’t stop seeing, even behind his lids. “And for years every day I thought it would be my last day. You stop caring about that, after a while. You just hope that when you go, it’s quick. Easy. I didn’t care about the death,” he admitted, like it was a secret, like this was his confessional. “I cared about dying. Because it was just so fucking… pointless. And I decided if I ever came back, when I died again, this time I would die for myself. For my own cause. For a fucking reason.” She sat in his lap, watching him as he pulled out a cigarette from the case in his pocket without opening his eyes. 

“Aren’t you fighting for the same cause now as you were back then?” She asked him, before considering if she should. His eyes opened, fixed on her, then flickered down to his cigarette as he lit it. 

“No,” he said, and the word made the white smoke bounce a bit against his lips. He inhaled. “Now I’m fighting for you.” 

She smiled briefly, watched the smoke float out between his lips and spiral up into the dark air of the room. He looked incredibly good, underneath her, with his scars and tattoos and fucked-up moral codes, and she wanted him to be hers. 

“You’re used to giving orders,” she said, moving her hips against him again, experimentally, tracing her fingers down his abdomen, cataloging the feeling of his skin beneath her hands in her mind. “Your soldiers in the war.” She pressed down. “Your family.” She ground against him, and he watched her silently, smoking. She rose higher on her knees so that she could slide a hand down between his legs and grip him, squeezing, and his beautiful eyes fluttered slightly, but he did not respond. She leaned forward, closer to his face, rubbing her palm against him through his pants, and smirked as he blew a sharp breath through his nose when she pressed down. She kissed his cheek, then his neck, then his ear. “Wouldn’t it be nice,” she whispered, sucking gently on his earlobe, “to give up control again, for once?” She unbuttoned the top of his pants and slipped a hand inside, feeling him thick and stiff in her grasp. His breathing quickened, his pupils blown but still clinging to his impenetrable composure. Then she swiped her thumb over the head of his cock and his hips twitched, looking for more friction, and she slapped his cheek with her free hand, making her palm sting. He grunted in surprise and a muscle in his jaw jumped, but he did not speak otherwise of the mistreatment, just watched her with his blue blue eyes, his chest rising and falling rapidly, as heat pooled between her thighs. 

“I said, stay still,” she told him, trailing her fingers down his shaft, and then up again, pressing another kiss to the scar on his shoulder, to his face where she had hit it. He took another drag of his cigarette, the dry crackling of it burning as he inhaled loud in the otherwise silent room, eyes fixed on her like two spotlights. “Trust me, love, yeah? Trust me,” she told him, moving her hand again, faster, this time, twisting it slightly, and his eyes did not waver but he nodded, barely, once, let her pull his pants off and drag her nails down his hard stomach, hissing through the cigarette in his teeth, let her kiss her way down, taking her time, memorizing his body with her mouth. When her kisses became licks and she wrapped her lips around him he moaned, a deep hum that made her want to spend the rest of her life doing nothing but trying to hear it again, but she stopped and stood so that she could pull her blouse and jodhpurs off, letting him watch her as she did, stubbing his cigarette out and looking like the amount of restraint he was exhibiting was nearly painful, crossing his arms across his chest, naked on the bed, gorgeous and dangerous and waiting for her. She reached behind her back and undid her brassiere, her fingers slipping slightly, the weight of his stare making her movements unsteady and her heart pound, the whiskey muddling her thoughts. It fell to the ground silently, and she hooked her fingers on the top of her knickers and slid them down as well, kicking them off her ankles. She took two small steps closer to him, saw the way his eyes were roaming over her body. 

“Can I touch you?” He asked, and she smiled. 

“No.” 

He pressed his lips together and blinked at her, which just made her smile more. She slid across his lap again, the press of their bare skin igniting her already-eager brain, making her grind against him even though she had told herself she would force him to wait. His impatience she had considered, but she had failed to take her own into account, and the insistent, hot throbbing feeling was quickly undoing whatever plan she had concocted before she had gotten him underneath her, if not entirely compliant then at least unresisting, watching her with lust-filled eyes, his fingers fluttering restlessly but his hands kept obediently at his sides. She wanted to fuck him, desperately, and she did not posses the restraint required to refrain any longer, needed him inside her like a drowning person dreamed of air, so she reached her hand down and pressed him into her, sitting down slowly, acclimating herself to the stretch and trying to relax her automatically tensing muscles. Tommy’s jaw clenched, his fingers tightening on the sheets, breathing quickly through his nose, and as Tessa adjusted slightly, his eyes closed, long black lashes brushing the tops of his cheeks cut like his razor blades, his pale skin illuminated in the warm glow of the bedside lamp, and she watched, transfixed, as his throat moved when he swallowed, at the muscles flexing in his shoulders and arms as he fought to keep himself still. She rocked slowly, her hips pressed to his, and caught his wrists in her hands, brought them up above his head. His eyes cracked open, both of their breathing coming fast and rough and panting through their lips, the feeling of every inch of him making her come apart like a dropped ball of yarn across the floor, his stare heavy as the gold standard, his face so pretty and so open as he let her do whatever she wanted, pressing her weight down onto his crossed wrists and her hips down against his, her hair falling down around her shoulders and swaying with the motion. Tommy’s eyes closed and a groan slipped out, along with the word “fuck” and a string of Romani she couldn’t understand. She moved faster, rolling her hips against him like the tide, until he was shaking under her, his muscles tense and her body coursing with pleasure, their skin slick with sweat and their breath panting, when she stopped suddenly, immobile for a moment just before his release, and let go of his wrists. 

“Now you can touch me,” she said, before pressing her lips to his, letting him breathe in the sounds he drew from her as he complied. 

  
  



	6. Smoke & Retribution

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Blood is sitting in my hands, I'll never be the bigger man

He woke before her, and doubted she would stir for hours. Sometimes she would be up all night, reading or staring out the windows, sometimes she would slip out of the bed and roam through the house, and thought he didn’t notice. He always knew when she was awake, but she had no idea how many hours he spent, motionless, his eyes closed but his mind like a steam engine, all inertia and steel, a monster he couldn’t wrestle down with his hands, couldn’t fight back with his fists because he was nothing against it, just drug along behind it’s whirlwind. He had slept for more hours than he was used to, and he was grateful. The past week had made him feel like a snapped bone that was still being walked on, like a loaded trigger waiting to go off. He pressed a kiss to her temple, catching a brief whiff of her scent of crisp apples, her hair a fiery wash against the navy pillows in the early morning light, her skin like fresh cream. She murmured quietly, and he cursed himself for forgetting how light a sleeper she was. She reached out a warm hand for his, half asleep, her eyes still closed.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you,” he said, brushing a wayward wavy strand from her face, and her eyebrows creased and then relaxed. 

“You didn’t,” she muttered, but he knew that was a lie. “I had a dream about you.”

“Did you?” he asked, threading her hair through his fingers, wondering at the weight of it, the thickness. 

“Mm. We were in Chicago, but it wasn’t Chicago. There were snakes all over the ground, and they kept trying to bite us, but I wanted to go to the Pier, and you let me, told me you would come with me,” she told him, her voice slightly scratchy, and her next words were so muffled by the pillow he couldn’t catch anything, except for what may have been something about clouds. He smoothed his hand across her back, felt her shoulder blades through her silk nightgown. 

“Stay,” she asked, her eyes reluctantly opening slowly, unfocused and dark against her pale skin. 

“I can’t. I have to go to London today,” he told her, and she pouted, her full bottom lip pushed out. He kissed it lightly, and watched her eyes close again as she slipped back into sleep. A shot of icy terror jolted through him with an urgency that he was unable to become accustomed to, unbidden, still unfamiliar. In the war, there had been moments of it, this potent fear like he had been dunked in it somehow, like he had been stabbed in the heart by something frozen, choking on the cold, but it had always been a direct result of a dangerous situation, not sitting on the side of his own bed, looking down at a beautiful woman. He breathed in sharply and stood, wanting a cigarette, but waiting to light it until he had left the room. He was still shrugging on his jacket and buttoning his shirt when he rounded a corner at the bottom of the stairs to see John and Arthur, heads ducked, conversing in surprisingly soft tones. So they were capable of whispering, after all. Let it be noted. Tommy made his footsteps click a bit louder against the polished wood to announce his presence, and they both looked up at him simultaneously. 

“Good morning, boys,” he said, and Arthur smirked brightly under his mustache, his deep eyes fixed on a spot below Tommy’s exposed collar. 

“For some of us more than others, eh, bruva?” He asked in his thick voice, and John sniggered. 

“You’re a fucking child,” Tommy said, his hands moving to the last buttons and starting on his tie. “We’re going to London today.” 

Neither of his brothers responded to this surprise, although John looked a bit relieved. There were only so many pheasants to shoot at around Arrow House, after all. Arthur nodded slowly. 

“All ‘o us?” he asked, and Tommy nodded back, once, sharply. 

“Yep.” He finished his tie and pulled out his cigarettes. 

“And the Perish?” Arthur asked, and John scoffed before Tommy had a chance to respond, but he was lighting his smoke, and wouldn’t have anyway. 

“Fuck the Perish,” John said, “I’m gettin’ out of this house if it’s the last thing I do.”  
“It might be,” Arthur muttered, and Tommy clapped him on the arm. 

“Since when are you afraid of a few Germans, eh, Arthur? Come on, I’m driving.” Tommy brushed past him, calling out “And bring guns!” over his shoulder, and Arthur grumbled something under his breath, but followed after a pause with his long, loping strides alongside John’s swaggering ones, the three men’s footsteps clacking off the stone of the walls. 

  
  
  


“There’s someone here to see you, Mr. Shelby,” Lucy said, and he did not reach for his gun, but he wanted to. He rue the day he had given Lucy the secretarial position at the new London office, in the hopes that it would prevent her and Lizzie from butting heads. All it had done was give her too much free rein away from Polly’s watchful eye, let her get close to Jack Fischer, of all fucking people, who had a concerning amount of motive, and an even more concerning stockpile of information that could be used against him. But the potential revenge of Jack Fischer was something he would have to deal with when he had less pressing matters at hand. 

“They can wait. Come in here for a moment, please, Lucy.” He said, and didn’t wait to see if she would heed his command or not but turned and walked into his office, which he had only just arrived at. Arthur and John were out completing the respective tasks Tommy had assigned to them, as quickly as possible, both with a security detail of Blinders in tow. He did not want to give the Germans the opportunity to ambush them while they were separated, but it was necessary to do so in order to complete all the things he needed to in as little time as they could. Lucy’s steps tapped softly behind him, and he sat behind his shiny desk and interlaced his fingers, gazing at her. He wanted a drink, but did not pour one. It could become an eventful day at any moment. A drop of a hat, a pin, a bullet. Lucy broke away from his stare, her dark hair swinging like a sheet across her face, her even darker eyes downcast. 

“If you want to continue to be employed by the Shelby Company, you’ll tell Jack Fischer you never want to see him again.” He kept his tone completely neutral, watching her impassively, and her eyes danced across his, briefly, before fixing again on a spot on his desk. He could see her reflection in its surface, slightly warped and disfigured. She didn’t speak. “It’s your choice,” he told her, and her slim shoulders rose and fell. 

“So you don’t want me, but no one else can have me either?” She asked, her lovely, slightly angled eyes meeting his, and he pinched the bridge of his nose, sighing, somewhat surprised and appreciative of her straightforward words, but significantly less than he was irked by them. 

“That’s not what this is about,” he said, still rubbing his eyes. Ever since the encounter with the priest, an ache developed behind them if he was under strain for too long, which felt like a constant state of being, recently. He pulled out a cigarette and gestured at her with it, noting the flush of color across her flawless cheeks. “He has too much knowledge and too much hatred, and he’s a danger to the company. And he’s using you.” 

“It was the other way around,” Lucy said, but very quietly, and he didn’t have time to interpret the meaning of her words before she spoke again. “Why do you care who’s using me?” 

Tommy refrained from rolling his eyes, but with difficulty. “I just told you,” he said, and she pursed her lips and crossed her legs and looked at him, prim and polished, and he could never have guessed her mother was a whore, or that she had grown up living on dirty, coal-filled streets. He respected her for that. 

“Why him, then?” he asked her, and she smiled slightly. 

“Have you asked Tessa that?” she asked, and his eyes snapped up from where they were looking down at the orange flame of his lighter as he flicked it, like her hair, always like her, fire and flame. He worked his jaw, clenching his cigarette between his teeth. 

“No,” he said, and she smiled again, facetiously sweet, and shook her head. 

“Well. I’d wager twenty pounds it’s the same answer,” she told him, looking out the window, her eyes glazed, like she was thinking of something else. 

“What’s that?” 

“He’s not you,” she said, her voice soft and lilting like a melody, like she wasn’t even there, and then she stood. “I’ll go tell him.”

Tommy stared at her, and then made a confused gesture at her desk beyond the doors of his office. “Not right _ now-,” _he said, but she cut him off. 

“Oh, I won’t have to go anywhere,” she told him, fidgeting with a ring on her finger. “He’s the person who wanted to see you. He’s already here. Shall I send him in?” She asked, her delicate chin cocked to the side, and Tommy really, really fucking wanted a drink. 

“Fuck,” he said, under his breath, dragging a hand down his face and then flicking his fingers in a gesture of vauge agreement. “Yes, fine, send ‘im in.”  
  


  
  


“Mr. Shelby,” Jack Fischer said, moving his lanky frame further into the room, and Tommy bristled internally despite the lack of provocation, but let none of it show, kept his face blank and impassive as a painter’s untouched canvas. 

“Mr. Fischer,” he responded, shortly, leaning back in his chair with a creak. “What can I do for you?” 

“Nice office,” Fischer said, gazing around, wasting Tommy’s time. 

Tommy did not respond, taking a drag of his cigarette, trying to remind himself to deal with Fischer as a potential threat and not level his gun at him just to get him the fuck out of sight. The taller man crossed the room and folded himself into a chair before Tommy’s desk, long-fingered hands locked over a crossed, knobby knee. 

“You come here just to compliment my bookshelves, or was there something you need?” 

Fischer’s brown eyes continued roaming the room, clearly enjoying holding Tommy in suspense, and Tommy stared at him, not allowing himself to tap his foot impatiently. Finally, Fischer spoke. 

“You’re a businessman,” he said, inclining his head. “Supposedly.” Tommy waited, still silent, giving no ground. “So, I have a proposition for you.” 

Tommy drummed his fingers against the dark oak of the desk. “Do tell,” he said, gesturing for Fischer to continue, wondering if Arthur was done with the meeting he had been sent to yet, wondering what Tessa was doing right at that moment, wondering if his most recent export shipment had made it to Nova Scotia yet. Fischer cleared his throat. 

“Over the past month or so, I’ve been writing a story about you. Your family. Your businesses. Your… history.” 

Tommy absorbed the information for a moment, then clicked his tongue, took a drag of his cigarette. “Sounds like you need a new hobby.” 

“Hmm,” Fischer said, not quite a dry laugh, more an imitation of one. “Be that as it may, it is my job.” 

“Why are you telling me this?” Tommy asked, holding Fischer’s eyes in his own like his stare was a fist, spinning the ring on his pinky. Fsicher looked back at him, working his jaw. His permanent stubble seemed darker, as if he hadn’t had time to take care of his physical appearance, or wasn’t steady enough to bother at all. His clothes were rumpled. And yet there he was, in Tommy’s office, bold as the day, telling him he was writing an expose that exposed all of his dirty secrets. If Tommy had needed any more proof that all a man needed to grow some balls was have Tessa in his life for a spell, it was currently sitting in a chair in front of him. 

“Because I wanted to give you a chance to prove I shouldn’t publish it. Seemed the gentlemanly thing to do.” Fischer said, and Tommy scoffed. 

“I have no interest in behaving in a gentlemanly manner, or in negotiations of any kind.” 

Fischer sighed like that was the exact response he had been expecting, and his assumptive aura was only serving to anger Tommy further, and he was already plenty angry, although he did nothing to display it on the surface. Let Fischer flounder. Let him drown in his well of stupidity, for all Tommy cared. He checked his watch. Half past two in the afternoon. He needed to get out of London, and take his brothers with him. 

“I thought you might say that,” Fischer responded, taking off his brown felt hat and laying it on his lap. His hair had been cut recently, and was likely the neatest part of his appearance. Tommy flicked his own back from his forehead idly. The Blinder cut was less an aesthetic choice on his part than it was a symbol for others, like the razors, although those did serve a much more distinct purpose than simple identification. It was what it represented. If a man was a member, everyone else, be they other members or otherwise, would know. Tommy had been sporting a haircut that directly affiliated him with the most notorious crime organization east of Dublin for years and no one had been daft enough to even question him for it. And it was his gang. Birmingham was his city. Let some nobody London reporter come for him. Let Jack Fischer be the newest face in the line of opponents Tommy had taken down. Let him face the wrath of the Peaky Blinders. Tommy stared at him and didn’t blink. Fischer continued. “So I thought it prudent to warn you that the article does not only discuss your sins. It also divulges the actions of your brothers, your aunt, your friends. Muder, arson, blackmail, sedition, communists and Russians. Your tangled interests are a reporter’s dream, if I may say so myself.” 

The smoke tickled Tommy’s throat, and he coughed, and then he reached into his coat and pulled out his Colt from its holster, leveled it. Fischer’s hands clenched and tightened on the arms of his chair, knuckles white. 

“You’re threatening my family,” Tommy said, matter-of-factly. “That’s a bad idea. You’re not a stupid man, Mr. Fischer. Don’t make stupid choices.” 

Fischer inhaled shakily, Tommy could hear the rattle of his breath from across the desk. The gun gleamed in the reflection on its surface, the steel almost glinting golden in the midday light through the seventh story window. 

“As I said,” Fischer continued, rather more weakly than before. “I am here to offer you a choice. A chance to prevent the article from ever seeing the light of day.” 

Tommy cocked his head and the hammer. “And as you said, Mr. Fischer. I am the one who provides blackmail. Not the one who is threatened by it.” 

“Can the same be said for your family?” Fischer asked, staring at the gun pointed directly between his eyes, his pupils almost crossed. Tommy’s pulse pounded behind his eyes. 

“What do you want?” He ground out, his teeth clenched, his finger next to the trigger, itching. He was thinking about the spray of blood, Lucy’s scream when she came to investigate, thinking about it and not caring, but he was thinking of Polly in a cell, Finn sent to a boy’s home, John’s neck in a noose. 

Fischer took another deep, steadying breath. The Colt did not waver, did not shake. _ Nerves like a bear trap, _Tommy’s Colonel had said about him once. The air felt thick and slow, like dripping honey. 

“An apology,” Fischer said. 

“What?” Tommy asked, frozen, for a moment. Then he lowered the gun. 

“An apology. That’s all,” Fischer told him, looking like an elephant had been standing on his chest and had just moved its foot from atop his ribs. 

“An apology?” Tommy laughed, once, sharply. “For fucking what?” 

“For your treatment. Of me. Of Tessa. Of your family. Of the people of Birmingham.” 

“The fuck have I done to warrant an apology to any of them?” Tommy asked, and then said, “Don’t fucking answer that,” as Fischer opened his horrendously irritating, thin-lipped mouth to respond. Tommy inhaled sharply, shook his head, staring blankly at the floor, and then his gaze snapped up to Fischer’s, who was observing his process in silence, for once. “Right, you listen to me,” Tommy said, standing, pointing out the window with the gun he was still holding. “The world that I live in, the place that I come from, is not a land of apologies. It’s full of dirt and ash and blood, and people who take whatever they can get from you before you take it from them first. And I would not be where I am if I did not understand that. And I would not be where I am if I fucking apologized for it.” 

“So you feel no remorse for the things you’ve done? The people you’ve hurt? No responsibility for the repercussions of your actions?” Fischer asked, and he sounded like a true reporter, conducting an interview, pushing and prodding his subject until they cracked. Tommy just stared at him, and then he lifted the Colt. 

“I _ feel,” _he said, quietly, dangerously, “that it is in your best interest to tell me why I shouldn’t kill you right now, save myself the trouble.” 

“Because,” Fischer said, “I have made copies of the story, given to someone I trust with instructions to be sent out to every magazine and newspaper in London before the milk truck makes its rounds tomorrow morning. All attached to a letter explaining that in the event of my death, the culprit could not be more obvious, or have proved himself more guilty of all the atrocities I uncovered. And also because of how would Tessa feel, when she found out.”

Tommy blinked at him, slowly, lowered the gun again, wished he was firing it off instead. Fischer continued speaking. “My editor, Donald Sutherland, has been attempting to convince me to abandon the story since I began it. My job and livelihood are in grave jeopardy because of it.” Tommy made an amused face. “But I don’t care,” Fischer said, “because it’s worth it to me. To have the truth exposed. So I’ll ask you again. Will you publicly apologize for your actions, for your choices, or will you force me to bring down the retribution you have been avoiding onto you and your family?” 

Tommy put the gun on the desk with a loud thud, braced his hands against the edge of it, the tension in his arms making him feel like he might have been able to snap it in two if he had tried. But he still did nothing impulsive, nothing rash, did not react. He stared at Jack Fischer until the other man glanced away under the weight of the inspection. 

“I already told you, Mr. Fischer,” Tommy said, snatching the gun off the table and sliding it back into his holster in one smooth motion. “The Shelbys do not give in to blackmail. And we do not apologize. Put that in your fucking story.” 

Fischer’s brow tightened, furrowing over his brown eyes. “Your arrogance will be your downfall, Shelby. You mark my words.” 

Tommy considered responding with a clever quip, a biting retort. He could have. He didn’t care how many years of schooling the other man had on him, he could have sliced him with his tongue, or his knives. For the first time in months, he wished for a moment that he still wore razorblades in his brim, that he could have whipped off his cap and taken out Fischer’s tongue and taught him a lesson, made sure he never spoke with so much disrespect in Tommy’s presence again. Instead, he said, 

“Get out.” And matched Fischer’s glare as the other man gathered his coat, stood, and slammed the door behind his retreating figure, Tommy’s fingers fluttering against the wooden desk like they were going through violence withdrawls. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do you guys have any dream casts for Tessa? Im curious as to what people imagine when they picture her. I've always imagined Jack as a kind of less-put-together John Mulaney lmao he just LOOKS like a 1920's era reporter
> 
> there's lots of references in here to the show, especially to the scene with the reporter in season 5 where Tommy says "I'm no gentleman," it's a really similar set-up, as well as in season 3 when he tells the family "if you apologize once, you do it again and again, like taking bricks out of your fucking house," and I really love both of those lines so I STOLE EM HA!


	7. Supremacy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You don't have long  
I am on to you  
The time, it has come to destroy  
Your supremacy

“So when was you planning on telling us about this, hmm?” Arthur asked, leaning over for closer inspection. John was observing with the eye of a true connoisseur, but there was a gleeful glint behind his eyes that he could not conceal. 

“Right about now,” Tommy said, cocking his head to the side. 

“Have you had a go in it yet, Tommy?” John asked, sliding in. 

“Not yet,” he replied, taking a drag of his smoke. “This is just a prototype. The real ones will start production in two weeks. And you boys will be the first ones behind the wheels.” 

John hooted and slapped the steering wheel, the supple black leather gleaming slightly in the low warehouse light. “German engineering, Italian interiors, English bodies, American engines and transmissions sent from Detroit. Michael and I met with a manufacturer when we were in New York.”

The black car was so polished it nearly glittered, everything dark but the silver badge on the boot that read  _ Shelby  _ in shining letters. Arthur smiled and shook his head. 

“Couldn’t believe it when that factory man asked me how soon did I want to begin shipment. ‘Shipment of what?’ I says to him. He looked at me like I was a fucking idiot.” He snorted, running a hand through his hair to slick it back. John was sitting in the driver’s seat past the open door, adjusting the mirrors and fiddling with the buttons. 

“A fucking idiot who owns a third share of the fastest motorcar company in the world though, eh?” Tommy said, nudging him with his elbow. 

“Yeah,” Arthur said, reverently, running a hand along the top of the car. “Yeah, ain’t that something.” 

“So this is what you’ve been doing, running ‘round London?” John asked, miming the jerky steering motions of a racecourse driver, making loud engine noises. Tommy nodded and took another drag. 

“Jesus Christ, Tom,” Arthur said, still shaking his head, looking mildly amused. “Not even letting the Germans get close to stopping ya, are you?” 

Tommy smoked for a moment before answering. “That’s the other thing,” he said, dropping his cigarette and grinding it out under his shiny black shoe, the same color and sheen of the vehicle he stood beside. 

“What other thing?” John asked, sticking his head out of the car. 

“On the day we begin production,” Tommy started, unhurriedly. “We’ll be throwing a grand opening. A party. Everyone will be invited, everyone will be here. And the Perish will come too, right into our fucking trap.” 

Arthur cleared his throat. “Where will the party be, Tom?” He asked, and Tommy gestured around them with a spread hand. 

“Right here,” he said, and John scoffed. 

“What’s the plan, then? The plan for the trap?” He asked, and Tommy caught Arthur’s eyes. 

“You remember how to fly a plane, brother?” Tommy asked, his voice low, and Arthur looked like he didn’t know whether to wince or to smirk, but after a moment, he nodded. 

“Like riding a bike, innit?” He asked, shrugging, and John snorted. 

  
  
  
  
  
  


**Shelby Company Unlimited: The Truth Revealed **

_ 2nd of October, 1924 _

_ By Jack Fischer  _

_ It is impossible to have spent any meaningful amount of time walking the streets of Birmingham within the last decade and not be familiar with the name Shelby. The family’s infamy has grown with their conquests, be they economic, geographic, or political, but the shroud of mystery surrounding their increasing power has kept the truths behind their rise in darkness. Until now, that is. With the aid of a knowledgeable inside source, I have uncovered…  _

Tessa’s eyes finished scanning the words and she put the paper down on the magnificent, long mahogany dining table with a  _ smack.  _

“Tommy is going to kill him,” she said, bluntly, and Polly did not respond, her slim arms crossed over her chest. Tessa drummed her fingers on the countertop, rage seeping through her. “How much is true?” she asked, and Polly ducked her chin briefly. 

“About ninety percent,” she admitted, and Tessa swore. “The bastard uncovered things we thought were buried forever. Things from years ago. Things we payed people good money to keep quiet.” 

“What are you going to do?” Tessa asked, her voice almost a whisper. Polly grinned like a shark, her teeth sharp and white. 

“We’re going to get payback,” she said, and as she did, the door to the large room opened, and Tommy entered. 

“Tommy-,” Tessa began, holding up the paper, but he raised his hand to silence her, walking towards where Michael, Polly, Tessa, and Esme were seated at one end of the banquet table. 

“I know,” he said. “Tell me,” he said to Michael, whose somber expression did not lift, despite his words coming to life. 

“Phone’s’ve been ringing since this morning. Business partners, politicians, average Joes. Everyone wants to know whether it’s all true.” 

Tommy sighed sharply. “Police?” He asked, and Michael shook his head. 

“But it’s only a matter of time.” 

Tommy’s sharp jaw worked, but his blue eyes were fixed on a spot on the wall, his dark hair and dark suit as impeccable as ever. 

“We need a lawyer,” he said. “No one say  _ anything  _ to anyone outside of the family.” Michael glanced at Tessa, but kept his mouth closed, and she ignored his side-eye, her own stare fixed on Tommy, who only met it briefly. Esme cleared her throat and crossed her arms, but Tommy paid her no mind, pulling out his golden pocketwatch, the chain tinkling gently. He checked the time, replaced it, then smacked his lips. “I’ll figure this shit out. Don’t answer the phones. I have to go to London to deal with something. Nobody leaves this house until I return,” he commanded, firmly, over Esme and Tessa’s protests. 

“What about the Perish, Tommy?” Michael asked, and Tommy inhaled sharply like he was tired of being questioned. 

“I’m handling that too. I’ll talk to you when I get back,” he said, drowning out Michael’s complaints. “Polly, come walk with me,” he ticked two fingers at her, and she stood, but Tessa did as well, following slightly behind them as they left the room through the heavy door, leaving Michael and Esme at the table, both looking disgruntled. Tessa lengthened her stride to catch up to where Tommy and Polly were standing outside of his office, speaking in low voices, Polly’s sharp and Tommy’s deep. 

“Tessa,” Tommy said warningly, looking up at her approaching footsteps, but she did not slow. 

“You just got back from London,” she said, accusingly, and Polly flashed Tommy an empathetic look that irked Tessa, before patting his arm and stepping past him, making her way up the large staircase. 

“This is the way things are, Tess,” Tommy said, shortly, and she scoffed and flicked her hand at him. “For  _ now,”  _ he told her, perhaps his best attempt at being consoling, but one that fell woefully short. His expression was closed and his dry ice eyes were smoking their frozen fumes in his cold marble face, and she stepped closer to him and clutched the lapels of his heavy coat in her hands, trying to physically yank some sense into him. 

“Tommy,” she said, speaking very clearly. “You could be arrested. You could be blown up. The government and an entire German gang are probably after you, right now, and you  _ just  _ got back.” 

“I just said I’m dealing with all of that, and I won’t say it again,” he told her, taking her hands off his jacket in his own, then immediately releasing them. “I have things to do.” 

“Fine,” Tessa said, and he looked surprised at her relatively painless acceptance, but he should have known better, really. “Then tell me something you’ve never said before, just to keep things interesting. Talk to me about the plan.” 

“You really want to do this shit right now?” Tommy snapped, and Tessa raised her eyebrows, prompting. 

“I want to help. If you want to keep me safe, you have to at least keep me informed.” 

“Or I could lock you in a room and not let you out until all this shit is sorted,” he told her, and she rolled her eyes, settling them back on him in a glare. 

“Don’t fucking threaten me, Thomas,” she said. 

“You need to learn the distinction between a threat and a promise,” he told her, speaking slowly, and she blinked at him, their stares locked in a frozen battle. Tommy huffed a breath between his full lips. “I will fucking tell you and Michael about the plan when I return. Alright?” He asked, and Tessa put her hands on her hips. 

“If you return,” she said, and he regarded her impassively, not responding. “Are you going to let me help?” 

He stepped foreward and kissed her without warning, pulling back too quickly, the plush press of his lips taken away almost before she had really gotten to appreciate it, smooth and soft.

“I love you,” he said, and she mentally applauded herself for somehow managing to not be derailed by his words, but her heart jumped in her chest, like a puppet on a string. 

“That isn’t an answer,” she muttered, her voice seeped in worry, her eyebrows furrowed and stubborn. 

“No,” he agreed, “but you won’t fucking let go of it anyway, I’m sure.” 

“Mm. You’re right,” she said, a small smile escaping despite herself. 

“I’ll be back by tomorrow,” he told her, and she sighed anxiously. She wanted to be able to keep him on a leash, tethered to her heart, protected by her own body, if need be. He pressed another quick kiss to her cheek, a bit distractedly, and turned to leave. She caught his hand, and he turned back to look at her over his coat-clad shoulder, the short fur at the collar of the expensive material almost touching his finely chiseled cheek. 

“Tommy?” she asked, and he raised his eyebrows slightly. “Are you going to kill him?” She hated the way her voice sounded when she said it, like she was a small child who couldn’t handle the cruel truth of the world. She could. She would not have asked, otherwise. When she asked him questions, if he answered, it was always the truth. He would not lie to her. She was constantly aware of it, and careful about what questions she approached him with, made sure she actually wanted to know the answers before she phrased them. He pressed his lips together, sighed. 

“No, Lolo,” he told her. “I’m not. But that does not necessarily reflect my desires.” 

“Okay,” she said, in response, and did not elaborate. He shifted the hand she was still clutching to squeeze hers, then let it go. 

“I’ll be back soon,” he said, his deep, rumbling voice low, and she bit her lip and nodded, suddenly unable to look at him, staring instead past his shoulder, at the graceful wooden archway of the foyer. She thought he might turn her face to his, kiss her again, comfort her, but he was already turning, his footsteps snapping on the hard floor, and she stood and watched him disappear, a shiver from the drafty house skittering down her arms. 

  
  


The line rang once, twice, three times. A fourth. Lucy swore. “Pick up,” she muttered under her breath, and the fifth, tinny ring echoed through the receiver before the other end went silent. She sighed and set the phone down with a click, running her hands over her hair in frustration. Then she lifted it again, and froze. Who else, where else could she call? Had she truly done everything she could, had she unknowingly signed the death certificate of a young woman, had she signed her own? She put the phone to her ear, and the exchange girl on the other end had clearly grown tired of hearing her voice half an hour ago, but acquiesced to “Put me through to 4-4-4-1 Weatheroak Hill again, please,” with a grumble. The phone rang, and rang, and rang, and then, finally, on the fourth dial, someone picked up. 

“This is the Shelby Residence, and yes, we are all gangsters of the worst kind, so be assured if you call this number one. More. Bloody. Time, we will find you and we will  _ slit your throat,”  _ a very irritated and very distinctive female voice said, her r’s sharp and American. 

“Tessa?” Lucy asked, clutching the phone cord, nearly dropping the receiver. 

“Who the fuck is this?” 

“It’s Lucy. Lucy Wong. Don’t hang up,” Lucy responded in one breath, and she could imagine Tessa in her mind’s eye, already with the phone halfway to the wall. “Do you know where Thomas is?” 

“Yes,” Tessa responded, her tone clipped. “And if I were you, I would be grateful that I didn’t, considering you spilled your guts about his family to a reporter.”

“I need to speak to him,” Lucy said, still talking very quickly in case Tessa made up her mind to end the call. Tessa was silent on the other end for a moment, then,

“You can’t,” she said, shortly. “He’s in London and you’re a snitch. Call again and I really will kill you. Before he does.” And then the line went dead. 

“Shit! Bitch!” Lucy hissed under her breath, more out of frustration than anger. A voice spoke from the darkness of the office just as she put the phone down, which was lucky, because if she had still been holding it, she likely would have flung it in surprise. As it was, she clapped a shocked hand over her mouth to muffle her scream. 

“You probably woke her up,” Tommy said, stepping into the office past the door that he had somehow, silently opened. “She hates that. Can be a right little demon in the mornings.”

“Thomas,” Lucy said, breathlessly, her fingers fluttering against her mouth, still recovering from the terrified spike in her heart rate, the expression on his face doing nothing to calm her nerves. “Thank Christ you’re here,” she told him, and he looked like it was about the last thing on earth he had expected her to say. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I always wonder if you lovely people refresh this story hoping for updates half as often as I do waiting to hear your feedback on it lmao adore my angels <3


	8. War of Hearts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I can't help but be wrong in the dark  
'Cause I'm overcome in this war of hearts

“Hello, Lucy,” he said, his tone flat, his eyes shining almost an anti-color through the dark. 

“Hullo,” Lucy responded, fighting to keep her voice even, her chest rising and falling rapidly with the quick breaths through her nose. She peered through the office at him, trying to discern if he was holding a gun, wondering in a vague sort of way if he was going to shoot her before she even got a chance to relay her message, but the cover of the night left shadows so deep that only his upper half was illuminated by the low glow of the city lights past the windows, his suit impeccably tailored, his tie perfectly even, his heavy, expensive coat a physical dance between luxury and utility. The London office was less ornate than the primary Birmingham location, perhaps a reflection of the appearance of the Shelby Company before it’s success. A time within the endeavour that Lucy had not been present for, and yet knew nearly everything about, had told Jack nearly everything about. A box of death used as leverage. Secret assassinations carried out for the Crown. A dead government official. A political plot to provide support for a doomed rebellion, murdered priests and stolen treasure. The public was terrified of the name Shelby over nothing but whispers, and they didn’t even know the half of it, had never been told how truly, darkly deserving they were of the infamy. Lucy knew. She knew exactly, intimately, how afraid she should be. Her hands were shaking. Tommy crossed the room, every step he took across the floor producing a visceral feeling in her stomach, like the building kept crashing down and dragging her along with each footfall. He paused in front of the desk, his desk, while she stood behind it, stood with his feet somewhat apart and his head cocked, observing her like she was something akin to a rodent, a pest that needed dealt with. He licked his lips briefly and then clicked his tongue. 

“So,” he said, and she took a deep breath into lungs so tight it was painful. 

“I know you’re angry,” she told him, hoping to get it out of the way, if it was even something that could be put aside, but it had to be, she had to believe it could, she would not die without trying, even if it was indeed impossible. Tommy didn’t scoff, like she was expecting him to, or smirk, perhaps. He just stared at her, his normally flickering eyes frozen on her, freezing her. Even in the dark of the office, she could see them, large and blue, and she was more afraid, suddenly, than she could ever remember being, because he hadn’t scoffed or smirked and those huge blue irises didn’t blink, didn’t even move, like there was nothing left behind them that was human, just an animal acting on its nature and not, for even a split second, thinking twice about it. She swallowed, and the words stuck in her throat like glue. “And you can do… whatever you need to do to me,” she said, and he blinked, once, the lines of his face that she had once found handsome now appearing harsh and cruel. “But first, you need to listen to me-,” 

She knew before her lips had finished forming the words that they were the wrong ones. He smiled, like he thought it was a joke, she must be joking, and she wished he hadn’t, wished he would go back to staring, immobile. His teeth flashed straight and white in the darkness, terrifyingly lovely, and she considered, for a moment, possibly one of her last, how unfair it was, that the only time she had been able to make him smile was right before he shot her in the heart. But if it was going to happen, it was going to happen on her terms. 

“I _ need _to listen to you?” he said, and she grabbed her fist in the opposite hand to try to stop them from shaking. 

“Yes,” she told him, and her throat was tight and her chest was tight and her lungs were not listening to the commands her brain was sending them, to inflate, to inhale. 

“You sold us out,” he said, softly, his deep voice accusing and apathetic and almost disappointed, all at once. 

“I- I wasn’t going to. Not at first,” she told him, and he lifted his chin a bit to stare down at her, disbelieving. “I was gathering information on Jack, actually, to give to Polly, I just made him think I was helping him instead.” Tommy nodded slowly, the faintest movement, and did not respond, silent and motionless. He clasped his hands in front of him. “But then…” 

He raised his eyebrows, spread his hands, prompting. He was wearing leather gloves. “Then what?” He prompted, and she shook her head, her movements frantic against his complete composure. 

“It doesn’t matter,” she said, quickly, “it isn’t important. Thomas, there’s-,” 

“No,” he said, flatly, his voice a command. A general, an executioner. “Then what?” 

Lucy’s lip trembled, and she sucked it into her mouth so that he wouldn’t see. She did not want these to be her last moments. She did not want to be discussing her mistakes with him, her wrong choices, her convoluted, immature rationale. 

“And then I saw you with her,” she said, and he didn’t even nod, this time. 

“So this is about revenge. From both of you,” he said, and she wanted to interrupt him, because it didn’t _ matter, _but held her tongue, thinking of his gun. “Well, at least we know Polly’s right. I bring this shit on meself.” His words were thoughtful, almost lighthearted, but there was a glint in his eyes like the moonlight was bouncing off of steel. Then he regarded her curiously. “Why, Lucy? You don’t love me.” 

“No,” she agreed, her words a mere whisper. “But you didn’t love me, either. No one ever does. And I wanted you to. I wanted to be… the one who got chosen. For once.” 

“The incompatibility of two people doesn’t mean everything else has to go to shit too,” Tommy said, and Lucy laughed a bit, a cold, sad, breathless, short laugh. 

“Doesn’t it?” she asked, and he looked at her, and she stared back, and they stood for a moment, then one, then two, and for perhaps the first time, she thought they might understand each other. “Tommy,” she said, because she hadn’t been shot yet, her chest wasn’t blown open, there was no blood leaking out of her mouth. “Your sister called. She said she’s coming home. She’s probably already in Birmingham by now. I’ve been trying to reach you all day to warn you.” 

She could see him thinking, his intelligent mind clicking to life, but he still wasn’t fast enough, and they had wasted too much time already. “In the story,” she said, her voice stronger than it had been during the entire conversation, maybe even all of their conversations, direct and anxious. “In the story, it had her-,” 

“Her address,” he finished, almost under his breath. His eyes skittered about the room, alive, now, frantic, falling to the floor and then back up again like stars shooting through the night sky, comets in the darkness. 

“That paper was sent throughout the city,” Lucy said, her words rushed, imploring him to understand, and to understand quickly. He did. 

“They’ll have people watching it. They’ll have sent people to watch the house,” he muttered, not looking at her, like he wasn’t even listening to her. “She can’t fucking go home. They’ll find her.”

“Yes,” Lucy said, her pulse thudding, and his ice eyes snapped up to hers. 

“We have to go,” he said, roughly, walking around the desk and grabbing her arm, so quickly she had hardly processed the movement before they were heading out of the office. 

“W-we?” she stuttered, but he did not seem to hear, his face set and sharp, rushing out of the building with her in tow. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> short chapter AND another cliffhanger, I am awful it's true, yell at me in the comments ily <3 <3 <3


	9. Flesh and Bone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Break the truth inside of me  
Climbed down to hell on the devil's tree  
I clutched a branch of soot and flame  
A thought that rose, to scorch my feet  
I walk alone, beside myself, nowhere to go  
The seeds I've sown  
This bleeding heart, that's in my hands, I fall apart  
My flesh and bone

Tommy slammed the passenger door behind her and leapt into the driver’s seat and turned the ignition and  _ drove,  _ barreling into the danger, taking her with him. There was no plan, there was no preparation, and he was speeding along at a pace that had her clutching the door handle with a white-knuckled hand, the fastest she had ever moved towards danger, the fastest she had ever moved in her life. The tires screeched around a cobbled corner and the night air flew into the cab through the open windows, the rushing wind snatching away her voice, almost whipping tears out of her eyes. Tommy either didn’t notice or simply didn’t care, aside from yanking off his cap and throwing it to the floor and letting the breeze tousle his hair, and she wondered if there were razors in it, if that could possibly do anything against the enemy they were going to face, and his eyes were glazed and expression closed like he wasn’t seeing the road in front of him but was shooting down it frantically nonetheless. Lucy wasn’t sure if it was sheer luck that no coppers sirens had sounded behind them, or if they just recognized Tommy’s Bugatti, even in the night, knew to stay clear. 

“Can you shoot?” he asked, without looking at her, and she nodded, and then realized he couldn’t see it, cleared her throat and said, 

“Yes,” in a wavering voice. 

“There’s a Webley in the glove compartment,” he said, and she opened it with stiff fingers. Her mother had owned a gun, in case customers ever tried getting violent. She had taught Lucy to shoot when she was nine, had told her to aim between a man’s legs, because it would be a better angle for her, given she was so small. That had been years ago. She had never needed to shoot anything other than rabid dogs since. She would be able to shoot at their chests, now.

“When we get there, stay in the fucking car,” he said. “There might be none, there might be twenty. You don’t say or do anything I don’t tell you to.” 

“You’re not- you’re not going to call for backup, or something?” she asked, and he shook his head and took a particularly sharp corner around a residential street that almost sent her flying into his side. 

“Don’t have time for backup,” he said, and her breath shuddered. She couldn’t draw in any oxygen, no matter how deeply she breathed, her head was starting to feel fuzzy and light. Her gasping made Tommy glance over at her, briefly, for the first time since they had gotten in the car. 

“In through your nose and out through your mouth,” he commanded. “Four counts for both. If anything happens to my sister, it’s on your fucking head.” 

Lucy couldn’t speak, so she just nodded, her chest heaving and her vision blurring around the edges. She counted her breaths as he instructed, wondering who she ought to be more afraid of, the potential German fascists or the man sitting next to her, foot on the gas like he was a driver on a course. It felt like they were driving forever, like any life she had had before the journey no longer existed, like no hope of a future after it did any longer either. She was having a hard time not watching him, finding some sort of disturbing hypnotism in the raw coldness of his face, now that his wrath was no longer directed at her, albeit temporarily. He was calm and composed, even now, his movements shockingly quick but still controlled, but there was a light behind his eyes like someone had struck two blue matches and lit them in his skull, one that she had never seen before, a burning look of fear or hatred or hunger that made even his usual, impassive mask of an expression look somehow more alive. She had always been a bit infatuated with him, but now she realized, truly, how one-dimensionally she had constructed him in her mind. She had known for some time, of course, of the depth of his darkness, through old newspaper clippings and eyewitnesses and scattered pieces of evidence that she had painstakingly tracked down, but to see it, to experience it, even in silence, even as nothing more than a crackle in the air radiating off of him like electricity in an otherwise completely mundane setting, was another animal entirely. She tore her eyes from him and stared out past the windshield down the dark road, her fingers fluttering nervously against each other where they were clasped in her lap. Tommy didn’t speak, not one word, but a muscle was jumping in his sharp jaw like he was grinding his teeth. His eyes flickered to the rear view-mirrors constantly, like he was afraid he had missed the enemy, somehow, had driven right past them. 

“We’re getting close,” he told her, as the rows of flats became more and more distinguished with every passing street. Primrose Hill, Lucy remembered. Her mother had tried to grow a rosebush in their windowsill one summer. It had bloomed spectacularly, beautiful little pink blossoms, and then died, and why she was thinking about her mother’s dead roses so strongly she could almost smell the perfume of the petals, she couldn’t have said. Tommy slowed the car to an acceptable pace. “Don’t shoot unless I do,” he told her, and it wouldn’t have been bloody likely to happen even if he hadn’t warned her against it. She thought about throwing herself out of the car, decided against it. It could be nothing. A false alarm. Her feet were tapping an irregular rhythm, but Tommy’s glance silenced them. He drew out his gun and slowed the vehicle to a crawl, so slow she could hear the tread of the tires on the road underneath them through the open windows. She gripped the Webley in both of her trembling hands, fighting to breathe. 

“That’s the house,” Tommy said, his voice a whisper like he wasn’t really speaking to her, just thinking out loud. The handsome brownstone was dark, no lights in the windows, no cars in the drive. “She’s not here,” he muttered, half puzzled and half confused, relieved and concerned. He drove past it, checking the mirrors again, his sharp cheekbones in sharp relief from the shadows of the night. 

“What are you doing?” Lucy whispered, the fear creeping into her voice. 

“Circling ‘round,” Tommy responded, and she remembered that he still might kill her, that if the danger was passed for his sister, it would be coming for her instead. She knew it with a cold certainty, and despite the knowledge pressing like a weight on her chest, she still found it easier to breathe, somehow, having seen the house, dark and empty. Tommy took two left turns down the nearest street, the sound of his inhales audibly slowing. He stopped at the intersection to Ada’s road, took a deep breath, his gloved hands flexing on the wheel. 

“She must have gone to fucking Arrow House,” he said, still halfway under his breath. 

“I’m sure she’s alright, Thomas,” Lucy said, and his gaze snapped to her, and her breath caught in her throat, and then, in the distance, the high squeal of tires cut through the silence of the night, and they both turned in the direction of the noise like foxhounds who had caught the scent, and Tommy only had time to load his weapon with a quick pull and a soft  _ click  _ that somehow registered somewhere in Lucy’s mind before two sets of headlights came barreling towards them down the opposing street, and they looked like they were flying they were moving so fast, faster than Tommy had driven them to Birmingham, fast as a speeding train, a bullet, and then the air slowed. Like everything had gotten trapped in amber and frozen, and she turned her terrified eyes to Tommy, as if she were underwater, and as the cars whizzed past, she saw the recognition and the terror cross his face, part his lips, and she knew without asking that one of the cars belonged to his sister. Tommy accelerated before Lucy had even turned her eyes back to the road, slamming her head against the seat behind her through the force of the engine’s efforts, and a moment that only took a single second stretched out like taffy, Tommy trying to catch up to his sister who was desperately fleeing the approaching German car, a van much larger than her own Bentley, careening down the street before her house, a man in a hat leaning out the window with a gun superimposed for a moment underneath the glow the newly installed electric light poles on the street, and then he shot, and shot again, and a tire popped on Ada’s car and sent it lurching to one side like a bird with a broken wing, and the van didn’t stop, and it slammed into the back of the Bentley so hard the car spun once, twice, finally hurtling to a grinding, crunching stop against one of the streetlights on the other side of the road. Tommy roared, in horror, in rage, a sound worse than the twisting metal had made, and the van was backing up, trying to peel away from the scene, but Tommy was gaining too quickly, covering the small gap between the two vehicles in another heartbeat, shoving Lucy’s head down below the dash with one hand and taking aim with the other as he passed, his gun firing like popped balloons, making her ears ring.  _ Were guns always so loud? _ She wondered, and he was leaping from the Bugatti without even stopping it, and some rational part of her brain told her she had to slide over, had to press the brake and yank the car into park, before it collided with one of the neatly manicured fronts of the townhouses with her inside it, and she did, and then threw herself out, wheels stopped halfway on the sidewalk. Tommy and a man were pooled under the light from the streetlamp, which was flickering in and out, a half-crushed car wrapped around its base, and for one bizarre moment Lucy thought they were embracing, and then Tommy cocked his arm back and blood sprayed from the mouth of the other silhouette, the red drowned out in the blackness of the night. She stood frozen as the man went down and Tommy pointed and shot and kept moving and didn’t stare at the way the body flinched when the bullet hit it like she did, and she realized he must have dragged the man from the van because the driver’s door was riddled in bulletholes that she hadn’t heard go off, somehow, how had she not heard them go off? And Tommy was sprinting, under the streetlamp, towards the ruined Bentley, and the back of the van opened and another man jumped out but Tommy didn’t see him because he was running towards his sister, and the man lifted his arm and aimed and the German pistol caught the light like a reflective shell on the beach in summertime and a shot rang out and a body fell and Lucy felt her arms jerk back with the recoil. 

  
  
She stared down at him, and some stupid little voice in her mind wondered if he had a family. A wife, children, did it matter? It wouldn’t make him any less dead if he did. It wouldn’t make it any less her doing if he didn’t. It wasn’t a clean hit. She thought the bullet had probably gone through his rib cage, punctured a lung. Blood was seeping out of him like a faucet, and he was gagging and groaning and dying, and she leaned over and vomited on the road only five feet away from him, the acid burning her throat and her tears burning her eyes. She was crying, but she wasn’t aware of it in the way a person normally was. Crying like breathing, like it was happening but only because her body needed it to, not through any commands of her own will. She stood and wiped her mouth on the back of her jacket and then heard the man’s gurgling breath and retched again, and it felt like fire and sickness and hell, and her stomach was cramping so hard she couldn’t inhale, but she stood anyway, stumbled forward anyway, and she hadn’t even realized where she was going before she looked up and saw Tommy, who was on his knees in some rich person’s lawn, cradling someone’s head, screaming something but she couldn’t make out the words. Lights were begining to flicker on behind the curtains of the elegant houses. Lucy must have taken another step, and another, but she hadn’t really meant to do it. Suddenly she was just beside him, looking down at his sister, and her first thought was a golden, shimmering relief.  _ She’s fine,  _ she wanted to tell Tommy.  _ She’s alright, it’s only a scrape, you can stop crying.  _ There was blood running down the side of Ada’s lovely face from the top of her head under her hair, but she was in one piece, and there had been so much blood, so much more blood from the man Lucy had shot, surely it took more blood than that, but then Lucy watched her chest, waited for it to rise, and it didn’t. And it didn’t. And it didn’t. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a tear was shed during the writing of this, I will not lie


	10. Saturn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You taught me the courage of stars before you left  
How light carries on endlessly even after death

The ambulance came, but they took her away in a black bag instead of on a stretcher. Tommy didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Didn’t even blink. It took four men to get him off her, to take his gun away. They gave it to Lucy and she tucked it into the waistband of her skirt but she was still holding the Webley, too, and her hands had been shaking in the car but now they were still, everything was still and quiet, the noise and the mania surrounding her faded out, like someone had turned the volume down on the world. The owners of the house whose lawn Tommy was sitting on never emerged, maybe they weren’t home, and Lucy pointed the Webley at the white-faced neighbors who had gathered to the scene, pointed it and screamed something at them, shot it off into the sky. The police took both the guns from her, then, but they didn’t go near Tommy, and she thought it was less about the bodies on the ground and the money he gave them to stay out of his business than it was the look in his eyes, the emptiest, emptiest look she had ever seen in a person who was still breathing, but then, she had only seen one man who wasn’t, and they had taken him, too, in another black bag, him and the other that Tommy had shot. Tommy’s eyes might as well have been closed, he might as well have been dead, she knew he wasn’t seeing out of them. He stared out at the houses across the street after the sirens were gone, their facades so calm and idyllic it made Lucy want to vomit again, or cry, and then she touched her cold face with colder hands and realized she had never really stopped crying in the first place. Her tears made her face feel puffy and her lips taste like salt, like ocean spray. The night was frigid, but it was like she was no longer capable of experiencing things like temperature, or feelings like fear, or sadness, or feelings at all. Everything was dull and muted, like the dark, dark world in front of her was painted from dripping, swirling watercolors when before it had been in vibrant acrylic. She sat down on the grass next to Tommy, grass the kind of cold it felt almost wet, or maybe it was, maybe it was blood, maybe it was rain. Maybe she had cried so much the streets were running in it. 

“Tommy,” she said, and put a hand on his knee, which was still folded where Ada’s head had been resting on it. He caught her wrist in a grip like iron, so quickly she gasped, and turned to her, and there was nothing there, on his face, nothing at all and somehow too much, like he was in shock, like he was numb. There was a wild look in his eyes, like an animal that had been caught in a human’s trap and didn’t understand what had happened, what was happening to it, because it lacked the ability to comprehend its own fate. It was worse, somehow, to see the look on his face, than it had been to look down at the dying man. He was eternally composed, eternally controlled, impenetrable and impeccable, he was infallible. He was Thomas fucking Shelby. But not now, and it made everything worse, made everything a million times worse, multiplied by the horror etched across his features. She wanted to run away. She wanted to run and never stop running and never look back, to leave the night behind somehow, to drop it like a weight off her back onto the frozen ground. She thought maybe she could. If she stood, right then, stood from beside him and simply began walking, perhaps she really could. She could forget Ada, forget the nameless German man. But she knew, in the deepest part of her, that she would never, ever forget the look on Tommy’s face. His shoulders were shaking. His hands were red. She could see the blood, now, and it registered dimly to her that that must mean the night was receding, being pulled back from the sky like a curtain on a stage. He could see it too. His whole body shook, then, wracked with tremors like he was having some sort of fit, and she heaved her slight weight against him and pulled him to her chest because she didn’t know what else to do and gripped him there, curled against her like a small child, and he shook like the earth did when God moved the pieces of his puzzle around. 

  
  


Tessa knew something was wrong before Polly dropped the phone. She could feel it, almost tangibly, as if horror had snuck into the room, stood behind her and tapped her on the shoulder. Polly’s face blanched like she had been shot and all the blood was draining out of her, and the heavy, gilded receiver clattered to the floor with a noise that shook the heavens, shook Tessa to the core. Tessa stood from her chair, reaching out like she could physically push back whatever had happened, like she could catch the danger in one hand. 

“Polly?” she asked, and the other woman’s hand came up to cover her mouth, which was open like an extended gasp, and Tessa took her other, squeezing, trying to reach her, the desperation almost immediate. “Polly, what is it? What’s happened?” 

Polly’s eyes were glazed, sparkling like jewels. Her mouth moved silently behind her hand, but no words came out. A door opened behind them, but Tessa didn’t turn, didn’t care who it was, because everyone was there. Everyone was there, except Tommy, it couldn’t be Tommy, it couldn’t be, she would not believe it, would not consider it, but everyone was there except Tommy and- 

“Ada,” Polly said, in a whisper, barely a flutter of breath, but Tessa heard her. Arthur did not, his footsteps approaching, still crossing the room, asking if they were alright, why was the phone on the ground, what was wrong? But his words meant nothing. No words, no language had any meaning at all. Tessa stopped hearing them. Instead, she heard Ada’s bright, tinkling laugh, as if from the next room.  _ No, that can’t be,  _ she wanted to tell Polly, who was speaking to Arthur, saying things that weren’t true, saying things that meant nothing.  _ That can’t be, I can hear her. I can hear her right now.  _ Arthur sank to his knees, then looked up at the ceiling, started begging aloud, to whoever or whatever was there, and Tessa felt like she was standing there forever, frozen, like her entire life until that very moment had been a ride on the ferris wheel at the Pier, and it had just stopped at the very top, and she could look out across it, across the years she had lived, and she saw her mother on the floor, her beautiful face a horrible shade of blue, saw her brother’s casket, closed because the shrapnel had taken his face, saw her grandfather, screaming at the voices he heard inside the walls, and she saw Ada, making a cup of tea, Ada rolling her eyes at her brother’s antics, Ada with a ripped dress and tear tracks down her cheeks, stomping in a man’s skull after he forced himself inside her, saw Ada laughing. And Tessa turned and ran, out of the room, out of the house, everything around her feeling like it was made of glass, of china, like the whole world was falling down and shattering on the floor at her feet, like the wheel was breaking, until there was nothing left but broken shards, in her lungs, in her throat, behind her eyes, ripping through her chest, as her cries became a sob became a scream, or maybe it didn’t. Maybe nothing came out at all. There was no noise, there was no sound, except for her best friend’s laughter, ringing like a bell. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ANGST dear god lmao that song is one of the very few that makes me cry


	11. If I Get High

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If I get high enough, will I see you again?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little conversation between two favorite characters as an olive branch in the hopes that you'll begin to forgive me for recent chapters (just so I can wreck you all over again) (but not as badly I promise) (...probably)

There were shots being fired down past the stables, and Benson unholstered his Smith & Wesson, clicked the hammer as he began walking down from the manor. None of the house’s other occupants seemed the least bit concerned over the racket, at least, no one else had emerged to investigate, and neither was he, particularly. If enemies were going to descend upon them, they were unlikely to do so by popping out of the haystacks. Be that as it may, it was his job, to keep them safe, to identify any potential threats. It was on his shoulders. Especially when Mr. Shelby wasn’t around, and he had not returned for the past three days, after delivering the news about his sister, and even that had been done over the telephone, which Benson found inconsiderate to say the least, but only more in character for it. Thomas’ absence was rather predictable as well, but if Benson was honest with himself, he had been holding out hope that perhaps his employer would take him pleasantly by surprise and return, would make one small gesture of humanity, if only for the sake of his family. The knowledge of the slim odds of such a thing occurring did nothing to quell his (grudging, who was he to judge how a man dealt with the death of a sibling? And yet… Tessa) irritation. Irritation, or mild offence, for the family’s sake, for Tessa’s. But Thomas was usually at least mildly offending. It was just past dawn, and the sky was a dusty shade of lilac over the barren trees. His circular thoughts preoccupied him more than they likely should in the face of the sound of shells dropping against stone, but as he rounded the corner to the stable buildings, he saw Tessa, the current subject of his ponderings, a shotgun poised against her slim shoulder, the barrel half as tall as she was. There were targets painted on haybales twenty yards across the grass behind the stables, and she reloaded, aimed, shot with a spectacular _ bang _, hit one just off to the side. She swore, and he cleared his throat, leaned back against the wooden wall and crossed his arms over his chest. She didn’t turn. 

“You’ll frighten the horses,” he told her, even though he knew it was no use. She reloaded again, the empty shell clattering to her feet. She regarded the targets with slightly cocked and very red head, lifted the gun again, peered down the scope. 

“Ms. Reilly?” he said, and she clucked her tongue at him, snapped, “Be quiet.” The shot that followed was anything but, ricocheting off the wooden walls and across the tops of the trees on the property, sending a flock of birds fluttering off the branches. She had hit the bales, was off from the plank of wood with the rather uneven circle scrawled in black paint, or maybe ash. 

“I’m fucking useless with a shotgun,” she muttered, her voice flat, flicking on the safety, putting it down, and pulled a revolver from a holster on her thigh, closing her right eye to aim so quickly it looked like a wink from the side of her face that he could see, clutched the grip with her left hand as a support, just like he had taught her. Pulled the trigger. The target cracked slightly from the force of the bullet, her shoulders jerking back with the recoil, her feet braced to absorb the impact. She blinked, breathed out, no hint of pride on her face, her features blank. It was the same expression Mr. Shelby always wore, he realized, or lack of expression. And then he saw, with an odd jerk, that the revolver she was shooting with was Thomas’ old gun, the Webley. He pressed his lips together, but briefly, because he didn’t want her to see. 

“You lean too far back, fucks with your aim,” he told her. 

“What do you want?” she asked, replacing the gun into her holster, turning towards him fully. Her normally smooth, cascading waves were tousled and down, tumbling around her face, it’s vivid shade bringing out the pallor of her pale cheeks, the wild darkness of her eyes. 

“Heard the shots, came to see,” he said, and she scoffed. 

“The Perish can’t come within a fifteen mile radius of here,” Tessa said, picking up the shotgun from where she had leaned it against a fencepost. The day was growing warmer than the several previous, but cold air blew through the remaining leaves on the trees, an ominous sound like the breath of ghosts. Tessa shivered in the dull morning light, but looked unaware of it, somehow. “Shouldn’t even come to Birmingham, if they’re smart.” 

The Perish had come to Birmingham, only a few days prior, and their presence had resulted in the death of a Shelby family member, but Benson thought it was best not to say that. He just grunted slightly in vague agreement, then said, 

“That’s Mr. Shelby’s gun”, nodding at it. 

“Coppers brought it to us. Along with the Colt. Is he back yet?” Tessa asked, not looking at him, asking even though she knew the answer. She had been waiting for him, watching the drive for his car, jumping up to be the first to answer the phone every time it rang. It was the only time he saw a flicker cross her face, and otherwise it had been permanently, achingly torn between worry and grief, or nothing at all, like it was now. 

“No,” he said, and she nodded very barely, her dainty chin set hard. She put the shotgun on a rickety wooden table next to the heavy wooden fence, piled with shells and knives and other memorabilia that denoted the house and grounds as belonging to a gangster rather than some well-to-do banker or some other such boring, mundane occupation, pulled out a single cigarette from her coat pocket, and in all the time he had known her she would never have deigned to carry spare cigarettes like loose change in the pockets of her mink coats, she always had them in an elegant silver case inlaid with mother of pearl. But now she pulled one out and lit it with a lighter from the other pocket like she had known she would need immediate access to it without the fancy case inhibiting her, and that, for whatever reason, is what caused him concern. Not the state of her hair or her pale face or the shotgun that had been resting against the velvet covering her shoulders, but the spare cigarette in her expensive, fur-lined coat. 

“The funeral is tomorrow,” Benson said, keeping his voice even, observing her reaction, which she did not give. 

“I know,” she told him, flatly, her eyes fixed on a spot over the horizon, her normally dilated pupils small, for once, so he could see the flash of greenish gray, the gold burst around the center like a sunflower. Her faint freckles were more obvious, too, with no color in her cheeks to contend with, dusted across her nose. 

“He’ll come back for it,” he assured her, and he put more confidence than he felt into his words, but he was still relatively certain. 

“Yeah,” Tessa said, like she didn’t quite believe him, but perhaps wanted to. “He had better.” She looked out again, up at the house, at the drive like his car might be pulling down it, a tic he wasn’t sure she was aware of. Then she tore her eyes away, and they dropped to the ground at her feet as she brought her cigarette up to her lips, which were still rosy and full, despite being chapped from her teeth worrying at them. Then she seemed to think about something that made her forehead crease and her eyebrows pull together, like whatever was in her mind hurt, and it likely did. Her fingers flickered back down to the gun, ghosted across it like she was reminding herself it was still there. Her other hand brought the smoke back up, and as she exhaled it drifted out up into the sky, the same color of grey as the faint horizon. Benson picked up the shotgun and flicked off the safety, reloaded with new shells, speaking as he did so. 

“You’ve got to keep your weight behind it, let the shock travel through your feet instead of your arms. Stay relaxed, not tense. If you tense your muscles, the shot will be off.” Tessa nodded, and if she was even half listening, he would have been surprised. “I’m sorry about Ada,” he told her, and her eyes met his for a bare second before flickering away again, her lashes fluttering with the movement. 

“Yeah,” she said again, but he thought she probably only responded because she felt socially required to. 

“He’ll come back,” Benson promised her, overstepping his bounds, wondering if he should be, and her lips twitched in a very sad little smile. 

“How much of him?” she asked, and he didn’t have an answer for her, so he aimed and shot at the black bullseye, and despite his numb fingers, he hit the second circle, right below where Tessa’s, well, Thomas’s revolver had struck, the shotgun blast wide and dark below the small, cracked bullet hole. Tessa looked at the target, the end of the gun Benson was holding smoking slightly, and so was she. Then she dropped the cigarette, ground it out under her heeled boot, turned to leave. 

“Where are you going?” Benson called, not sure if he wanted to know. 

“To see if Arthur wants to do some snow,” she answered, her voice hard and her accent foreign, and he supposed it was his own fault for asking if he didn’t want the truth. 

  
  


Arthur rubbed his nose, sniffing, wiping the white residue off. He shook his head like he was clearing it, then offered the rolled pound to John, who made a slight face, taking a deep drink of whiskey instead. 

“Shit makes me feel I’m like to fucking explode,” he said, and Tessa realized that it was true, she had never seen John touch any Tokyo. 

“Is the fucking point, John Boy,” Arthur muttered, twitching his fingers at his brother to get him to hand over the bottle on the table. Arthur didn’t refill his empty glass, just took a pull, and Tessa reached out for it in turn, interrupting her endeavour to make a line out of the white powder on the cover of the book they were using as a flat surface. Not any book. The Bible. A week ago, she would have found it amusing. Now she didn’t find it anything. The whiskey burned going down, almost made her choke, made her eyes water and her mouth and throat and chest burn. But it was better to feel something else. Anything else. She handed the bottle back to Arthur. 

“She would hate this,” he said, as he took it from her. “All ‘o us, sittin' 'round, moping.” 

“Mm,” was all John responded with, setting his glass down with a sharp _ clank _on the marble counter. They were in the master bathroom, hiding from Polly, who would not approve of such behavior, even though Tessa had lost track of the number of wine bottles Polly herself had gone through in the last few days, thinking, perhaps, that they wouldn’t notice. 

“Got a razor?” Tessa asked, because she didn’t want to talk about it, couldn’t think about it, even though it was undeniably true, Ada would have taken the mickey out of them for locking themselves in a fucking bathroom to take snow like they were university students on holiday. Off Polly’s fucking Bible, no less. She wanted to find it funny, wanted to see the humor in it. She couldn’t. The humor had bled out of the world like ink off the wet pages of the Old Testament on the counter. John slipped a knife out of his pocket, the blade small but deadly sharp. His eyes met hers as she opened her palm for it, and she realized that all the Shelby siblings had blue eyes, all different shades. Arthur’s were darker and set deeper, greyer, but John’s were more like Tommy’s, large and wide, a dimmer shade than his brother’s, but Tessa was suddenly unable to look at him, had to break off to stare down at the knife now in her hand, because Tommy wasn’t there. And because the next pair of eyes she thought about would be Ada’s, if she didn’t stop herself, and she blew up the tracks that the train of her thoughts was running on by sniffing one of the white lines, her sinuses burning like she had inhaled lit embers, reveling in the physical feeling of it, the act itself, it was doing something instead of just thinking, she had to do anything except just thinking, she had to stop the train. There was a pressure behind her eyes and a buzzing in her brain and it did not feel like hope, but it didn’t feel like the opposite, and that alone was a high, to just be able to escape from it, like being able to suck in a breath after being held underwater, only appreciating the oxygen because it had been deprived. She sniffed, then sniffed again. 

“Fuck,” she said, rather thickly, as her nose started to run red. 

“Put'cha head back, there you go,” Arthur said, and John wordlessly handed her some balled up bathroom tissue, and it was that, their small gestures of kindness, that for whatever reason, made her hurt, made her cry, and it was so unspeakably _ stupid _that she should be the one crying when it was their sister who had died, and she was wasting their snow on her tears, and the blood kept flowing from her right nostril and it was mixing with her tears. She did not want to cry in front of two war veterans. She did not want to cry at all, she was sick of it, fucking sick of the awful, hot feeling in her chest and the tightness in her throat and the empty empty empty feeling in her gut, but it was coming out anyway, coming out like the blood. The room felt bright and shining, the light shining in onto various reflective surfaces, bouncing off of them, silver and gold. 

“Easy, there,” Arthur said, sounding both uncomfortable and sympathetic, and John patted her back a bit awkwardly and she kept saying she was sorry, kept apologizing, the blood was getting on her hands and all she could think about all she could think about was Ada, what she had looked like after the crash, what a terrible thing to know, what a terrible thing to not know. She sucked in a breath, and then another, and her mouth tasted like sharp, metallic copper, and all she could think, selfishly, was _ how many times? How many times? How many graves, how much blood, how many times? _ And how _ dare _she pity herself in that moment, ashamed of and drowning in her own narcissism, in front of two people whose blood Ada had shared, who had known her their entire lives, who had lost so much more than Tessa with that one phone call, and yet- and the cocaine rushed in her ears, her blood pumping like Ada’s didn’t, her tears flowing like Ada’s couldn’t, and she felt like she was choking on the air in her lungs. 

“I don’t remember the last thing I said to her,” she choked out, and her voice was breathy and gasping and didn’t sound like her own. “Oh, God, I don’t-,” She pressed a hand to her mouth like she wanted to keep the words inside her, like she could stop all of the things that were pouring out of her, confession to two demons. Arthur’s eyes were rimmed in red, and John had his head in his hands. Neither of them spoke, and Tessa managed to get a grip on her leaking eyes, tipped her head back to stop the blood running from her nose. And then, 

“I do,” John said, quietly, then took a drink, at least, she thought he did, her vision was blurry with tears and snow and whiskey and she was looking down her nose at him, her head held at an odd angle. “Took the piss outta her for not being able to cook.” He paused again, staring down at the amber bottle in his hands. He wore rings, too, like Tommy’s, and they glinted on his fingers. “S’not really true though, eh, Arthur? She made a fucking beautiful pudding.” 

“‘Made’,” was all Arthur mumbled, his gaze distant. Tessa could see the reflection of the sharp cut of his hair in the large, gilded mirror over the sink. “‘S all past, now.” 

“No,” Tessa said, and her hand was trembling as she wiped it under her nose, and the brothers looked at her, shaky and bloodstained and teary eyed, “We love her. And that’s not in the fucking past. That’s forever.” It was fucking cliche, maybe, and it didn’t come out the way she wanted, harsh and biting instead of an attempted semblance of comfort, and John’s eyes widened slightly as Arthur’s brow furrowed, but then John nodded, pressing his lips together. He handed Tessa the bottle. 

“To Ada. Forever,” he said, and Tessa repeated it back to him, and Tessa drank the whiskey even though she hated it, because she hated the way her heart was clenching so, so much worse, eternally, forever, worse. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me: names the story Broke/n, tags Major Character Death, tells my readers in the notes to prepare for a trip to Angstville  
My readers, when all of those things come true: (ง'̀-‘́)ง (ง'̀-‘́)ง (ง'̀-‘́)ง 
> 
> lmao I love you guys to death and if you still hate me it's okay as long as you tell me all about it in the comments. It was really fun to write Benson, he has a very different narrative cadence than Tommy or Tessa


	12. Amen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh, is there a heaven? You'd know now you've been  
Are those real stars that hang in the sky?  
Or are they man-made, a trick of the light?  
Amen, amen, amen  
And is there a God up there?  
If so, where does He hide?  
'Cause the devil is raging inside my mind  
And is there a moment when it all makes sense?  
When saying goodbye, doesn't feel like the end?  
Amen  
Amen  
Amen, amen, amen, amen  
Sometimes I can't help blaming you  
For leaving me here, what am I supposed to do?  
There's plenty of women, there's drink and there's drugs  
But we both know that won't be enough  
'Cause I see you in the daytime, and I hear you at night  
There's a pale imitation burnt in my eyes  
I don't wanna be here, I don't know what to do  
Sometimes I'd rather be dead  
At least then I'm with you  
Amen

He didn’t come to the funeral.

February 7th, 1915

_ Dear Tommy, _the letter read. 

_ First of all, hullo. Polly says we’re to write you letters to help you keep your spirits, but I’ve heard stories from some of the girls whose fellas were medically discharged and from what they’ve said, a couple of lousy letters aren’t like to do you much good, compared with what you’re fighting. But I thought I would give it a go. They said there’s mud and trenches everywhere, and bombs and gas as well. I hope for your sake that’s not true, or that you were stationed somewhere lovely and sunny and they’re just having you work with horses all day. That’s what I like to imagine when I picture you out there, but knowing you, you’ve got yourself right smack on the front lines, and a whole battalion under your command already. It was Finn’s birthday last week, and Polly tried to make a cake but it didn’t turn out, so I stole one from the baker’s after the shops had closed and told her someone had given it to me for him. I don’t think she believed me, but she didn’t say anything and we ate it anyway. It’s quiet without the men here, except for the planes that fly past and make a racket. I’ve written to Arthur and John as well, but I don’t know if you’re still with them. If you see them, give them my love. Franny is engaged now to one of the blokes I mentioned, was sent home for having his arm blown off. He says the war is likely almost over, and that you’ll all be coming home much quicker than we think. I saved some of the cake for you. _

_ All my love, _

_ Ada (your sister, in case you’ve already forgotten me) _

He was still folding it up and trying to fit it into his chest pocket when a shell exploded a dozen feet away. 

“TAKE COVER,” a sergeant yelled, his voice hoarse with alarm, and men dropped down into trenches like raindrops from the sky, dropped like they had already been hit, like they were already dead, and they were. They all were, or might as well be. The air smelled like gunpowder and sulfur, stank of it, reeked of it, and the ground was cold and wet as he flung himself down below the lines, his shoulder slamming against a wooden support in his haste, dirt spraying up from the spot where he had just been, showering down over his head. For a moment, just one, he put his hand over his heart, his back to the wall of the trench. Over the letter. And then a hand grabbed his ankle and he almost shot his fallen comrade in the face in surprise, before bending down to help him up, to apply pressure to the shrapnel wound on his thigh, leaking red through his uniform, to drag him down the trench to safety, but there was no safety. There was no safety. The bombs hissed through the air like the shrill of a tea kettle, and rattled the bones of the earth with their impact, and Tommy’s boot slipped in the cold mud, and he kept one arm around the shoulder of the other soldier and one hand clamped over the too-small pocket, to keep the letter from falling out. 

  
  


October 11th, 1924

  
  


Tommy opened the paper slowly, the edges frayed and aged, the words slightly worn. _ Your sister, in case you’ve already forgotten me. _The bar around him spun and blurred. He ticked his fingers at the bartender, and the man hesitated, likely wanted to cut him off, and he shouldn’t have. Should have known better. Tommy lifted his eyebrows and cocked his head, and that was all it took, and the man trudged over reluctantly, wiping his hands on his apron. 

“What’s your name?” Tommy asked him, and his voice was slurred but made up for it with the arrogance dripping from his syllables. The man looked taken aback, and Tommy wanted to ask him something else, but he wasn’t sure what. He must have been in a bad way, if he was seeking answers out of lowly London barmen. The countertop felt like it was moving. 

“Michael,” the man said, after a pause, and Tommy scoffed at an internal joke, because maybe the person standing in front of him was his nephew from another life, one where he wasn’t the son of Polly Grey, one where Tommy hadn’t shown up at his adoptive house and offered him that glorious elixir, truth. The second best drink in the world, next to Irish Whiskey. Once you tasted it, you never went back. Lies just don’t burn the same going down. Tommy wasn’t sure if he had said any of this aloud. He didn’t think so, but he wasn’t sure. 

“Right then, Michael.” He licked his lips and they were warm and buzzing and the room spun spun spun and he leaned into it, leaned on the counter of the bar. “Do you want to know mine?” The letter slipped under his elbow, frictionless, made his arm slip and jerk. 

“Er,” Michael the bartender said, and before he could come up with some sad, predictable response, Tommy said, 

“I’m Thomas fucking Shelby. Now pour me another fucking drink,” he told him, and the words might have rung hollow but the threat behind them didn’t, and the other man did as he was bid, looking apprehensive, and Tommy thought it might give him the tiniest glimmer of satisfaction, but it didn’t, there was nothing. There was nothing. He swallowed his newly filled glass in one sharp toss, and the amber liquid might as well have been mild, might as well have been water. He only knew it wasn’t because he had watched Michael pour it from the bottle. Nothing. He wiped his mouth on the back of his sleeve. He looked down, and he had spilled some of the whiskey on the letter, on her letter, and smudged some of the words with the little drops of liquid truth, and he didn’t know if he was in a bar in London or a trench in France, looking down at the letter, the room spinning and spinning and spinning away. _ Your sister, in case you’ve already forgotten me. _He wanted to scream, but there was nothing inside, nothing to let out, and that was worse. It had always been worse. 

“Give me the bottle,” Tommy told Michael the Bartender, and the other man must have handed it to him, and Tommy slapped a roll of pounds down on the counter, more than the cost of his drinks, more than Michael’s monthly wages, maybe more than the bar itself, he didn’t know. He didn’t care. He thought about taking out his gun and shooting off into the ceiling to clear the place out, but he didn’t have it because the coppers had taken it after after after-. Lucy had told him. He didn’t remember. He stood, and swayed, and his head was buzzing and spinning and loose like a child’s top sent across the floor. He didn’t know where he was, really, but he knew enough, that this was German territory and he had given the bartender his name, that he didn’t have a gun and he didn’t have a sister, and he didn’t know he didn’t care there was nothing. He made his way out of the bar, surprisingly steady, but as the door swung closed behind him he realized entirely too late that it was pouring outside with freezing, icy rain, and he was already soaked with it by the time he had taken three steps, his cap held uselessly in his hand, and a voice asked _ London or France, Tommy? Do you even know? If you can’t even tell them apart, did you ever really come back at all, and what was the fucking point? Did you leave yourself there, in the ground, in the mud, in the trenches like pre-dug graves, in the tunnels like a rat crawling through the belly of a beast, would it have been better if you had? Would she still be alive, if you had tossed the one coin that mattered, if any of them had flipped the other way and it was your head that landed face-up in the dirt, was it tails that the Gypsy curse would strike her down? Was it you? What does your fucking money tell you now, Tommy? Tommy, do you know where you are? _

And then he was on his knees, on a dark street, suddenly, and it was empty like he was isolated in his own little locked circle of hell, and his pants were soaking, his shins scraping on the rough old cobblestones, water dripping from the tips of his fingers from hands he held out in front of him, palms up to the heavens, like he expected something to strike him down, but it didn’t. It didn’t. Perhaps God’s wrath couldn’t reach him, all the way down there in hell, perhaps he was the devil’s problem, now, perhaps he always had been. God had never concerned himself much with Tommy Shelby, until now, until he had apparently, finally decided that too many evil deeds had gone unpunished, and he had provided all his divine retribution in one fell swoop, and Tommy waited for the lightning strike that never came, and he said, 

“Why her, then? Why not me?” And the thundering sky did not respond, just kept opening up like heaven was a dam that had been split open, drowning the glittering black streets. “WHY NOT FUCKING ME, EH?” He asked, so loudly it scratched his throat, loud enough to ensure that something, anything, someone would hear him, but the only response he was given was the plinking of the rain off the roofs, on the streets, the tears of angels. 

And he dropped his palms and snatched the bottle from where it lay on its side next to him and flung it as hard as he could at the wall of the building behind him, next to the bar, and it hit the stone corner and shattered in a glimmering spray that caught the light streaming from the streetlamps, from the light coming from the windows of the bar, and he stood and walked slowly over to the shards, stared down at them. The rain was already washing the whiskey away. _ Your sister, in case… _ he was on his knees again, somehow, like his legs wanted no more part in carting around his head or his black heart. _ You’ve already forgotten me. _The shattered glass was cutting his knees, his hands, when did he land on his hands? It rained, and rained, like heaven in flame and God was trying to douse it out. 

“Maybe God’s too busy putting out his own fires to bother with ours, eh, Ada?” He asked, and tilted his face up to the sky, the raindrops pattering his skin like fingertips tapping on him. “I want heaven to be fucking real,” he whispered. “For you.” And the sky was getting even darker, the whiskey pulling at the tethers of his mind like loose strings, taking it apart. He was on his knees. He huffed a laugh, swaying. “Remember what mum used to say? Prohasar man opre pirende, sa muro djiben semas opre chengende. Dad told her she was self-pitying. Fucking bastard. Bet they stuck him in some unmarked grave. Serves him fucking right. If _ he _ didn’t give a fuck about us, why the fuck would the Holy fucking Father intervene on our behalf?” His words were slurring, losing their meaning, and he couldn’t feel the cold. “I hope they put you somewhere lovely and sunny, like you said you imagined for me. Te prakhon man pasho o, Ada. Muri bhen. Forgive me. I flipped the coin wrong-,” And then the whiskey swallowed him like he was Jonah and it was the mouth of the whale. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> remember how I was like "okay no more angst for a while!"? well, I lied
> 
> Tommy says "Bury me standing, I've been on my knees all my life," and then "May they bury me next to you, Ada. My sister".


	13. Sedated

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a little rush, babe  
To feel dizzy, to derail the mind of me  
Just a little hush, babe  
Our veins are busy but my heart's in atrophy  
Any way to distract and sedate  
Adding shadows to the walls of the cave  
You and I nursing on a poison that never stung  
Our teeth and lungs are lined with the scum of it  
Somewhere for this, death and guns  
We are deaf, we are numb  
Free and young and we can feel none of it

Tommy woke, at least an hour later, to a copper shaking him, his mouth forming words that didn’t travel through Tommy’s brain. Likely telling him to move the fuck on, and he did, somehow, stumbled through the soaking London streets. He must have, because he woke up again all the way in his flat, halfway on the bed, still in his damp clothes, with a stinging, sideways cut on his forehead he had no recollection of receiving. The rain continued. He watched it for a while, and then realized his stopwatch had been ruined in the deluge, and he had no concept of what time it was. He had business to do. He checked the small clock on the bedside table. He bathed, he dressed. And he left. 

“Hello, darling,” her father said, cautiously, gauging her reaction. Her head snapped around from where she was gazing out the window, an open book lying, forgotten, in her lap. She blinked as if reorienting herself.

“Hi, papa,” she said, and tried to give him a weak sort of smile. She had always been the strong one. He wheeled his chair over to her spot next to the large window, the heavy curtains drawn back and the drizzly landscape on display. It had been raining a cold, fine mist since the funeral the day before, but the sky had not yet opened to release it’s grief onto the inhabitants of the large house. It was currently stuck, just as they were, trapped between monochrome shades. They had buried Ada under a tree on the last day of bright, thin sunshine. She had loved books, Tessa said, and would appreciate the sentiment. The brothers had dug the grave themselves, tore into the frozen ground until their palms bled, and no one dared suggest otherwise. Tessa dog-eared her book, a habit he had spent years failing to break her of, and put it aside. She sighed, very quietly. It was a broken little hushed sound, and it broke his heart to hear it. 

“Having difficulty focusing?” he asked, and she nodded. 

“It just isn’t enough,” she said, and she looked so like her mother in that moment, after they had met at Sam’s funeral, so lost and empty and beautiful, like a gorgeous jewelry box whose contents had been stolen. 

“Mm,” he said, in agreement, because they shared this, this knowledge of loss. Sometimes he felt like it was the only thing tethering them together, and how painful it was, that pain was all that was left. 

“I was thinking about Sam,” she said, and he watched her in mild surprise, and hesitation. She did not speak of them, her mother, her brother, her grandfather. She did not speak of them, at least, not to him. 

“As was I,” he told her, and she looked at him with a glimmer of innocence in her eyes, some childlike desire for affirmation, and she didn’t ever have to look up at him anymore, because he was always confined to that bloody chair. At the moment, however, they were equal, both seated, but she looked away from his face and out into the grounds again. “And your mother.” 

“We buried her under the tree, you know. And he always used to climb them. He would stay up there for hours, we could never get him down.” Her voice and eyes were far away, in another time, another life. He nodded, remembering. 

“Your mother would go up and sit with him.” 

“Yes,” she said, and her expression turned wistful, and then hard, her eyes dropping to her hands in her lap, her forehead creasing slightly. She was so young. There were no lines on her face, her skin was youthful and radiant, despite the trials she had experienced recently. And she was so old. When had she gotten so old, and when would her age stop taking him by surprise? In his mind she was still a young girl with braids in her hair, skipping rope, she was a toddler learning to run, a baby taking its first breath of life. 

“Tessa,” he said, and she looked up at him again, his eyes in her mother’s face and still entirely her own. He wanted to take her hand, but he wasn’t quite sure how. He never was. At times he felt rather like fatherhood was the thing he was least successful at, but he wanted her to know that it was of no fault of her own. He needed her to know, for once, the truth. 

“I’m very proud of you. For the woman you’ve become.” 

She blinked at him, probably in surprise, and he told himself he did not notice her bloodshot eyes, did not attempt to discover the cause. Tears or otherwise, he could not bring himself to intrude. He never could. 

“Well, I suppose someone ought to be,” she replied, with dry, forced amusement. She sucked in a breath. “I’m sorry,” she said, shaking her head, looking past him again. “For everything, for all of it. I’m not sure I’ve ever told you before.” 

“You needn’t.” He waved his hand slightly. “It is of no consequence. You are still alive, and that is all that matters to me.” 

She hummed, quietly, like she wasn’t sure if she agreed with him on that, and pulled her long hair over her shoulder. It fell down to her elbows, brushing against her lap as she leaned on her knees, toying with her fingers, slim and delicate, just like Amelia. She had gotten so much from her mother, and nothing at all. No matter how poor of a job he did, at least he was still there to do it. At least he had chosen his flesh and blood child over the lulling symphony of liquor, the call of her son past the grave. 

“I’m sorry, too,” he said, softly. She did what he could not, and reached out for his hand. _ Yes _ , he thought. _ She had always been the strongest one _. 

  
  



	14. The Darker The Weather // The Better The Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Distant, everything is scattered  
When your mind is shattered and torn apart  
In an instant, I can be indifferent  
The blame is always shifted from the start
> 
> Leafless treetops in the snow  
Views of death and bitter cold
> 
> But the darker the weather, the better the man  
You can take all you want, but not who I am

“Tommy,” Alfie said, actually looking up at him as he entered the dusty office, and Tommy didn’t fucking care for it at all. The use of his first name, the assumptive eye contact. Like he wasn’t a threat, like he didn’t need to be taken seriously. Alfie already knew, then. 

“Mr. Solomons,” Tommy responded, shortly, and Alfie’s expression became mildly amused, like he already knew everything Tommy was thinking, had thought it himself already, had the whole interaction mapped out in his head. That made Tommy’s stare even sharper, and he raised an impatient eyebrow, because if they both knew how it was like to go, they might as well fucking get on with it. 

“Alright then, fucking sit down, why don’t you,” Alfie said, waving a large hand at the rickety chair facing his desk. Tommy knew that Alfie had money, but Christ could only guess what sort of shit Alfie was spending it on, because it certainly wasn’t interior decoration. He crossed his legs in front of him and took out a cigarette without really realizing it, and had a brief moment of surprise when he looked down to find it already between his fingers. That had been happening, recently. Time was jumping about, leaving him behind without bothering to take him along for the ride. The past few days slipped and blurred. The opium left gaps, but so fucking be it. His life was already riddled with bulletholes. His body, too. What were a few more? He lit the cigarette, met Alfie’s eyes across the desk with an irritated exhale. 

“Are you going to do it?” he asked, and Alfie steepled his fingers like a church, like a synagogue. 

“I’m assuming this plan of yours, yeah, is taking place whether I offer my very generous support or otherwise, hmm? Doesn’t really have any fuckin’ thing to do with me, mate, does it?” 

“No,” Tommy said, ticking his head. Alfie grunted and nodded, like this was confirming what he already knew, and Tommy was tiring of it, or he was just tired. “But you should know, Alfie,” he told him, the informal use of his name intentional, everything, always intentional, except- , “that if I do manage to take down the Perish without you... ,” he tapped the cigarette, clicked his tongue. Threats were easy. Violence was the only easy thing he had left. Straightforward. His eyes blurred momentarily. The opium swirled. “That would be the second time. And there won’t be a third.” 

“Fucking hell,” Alfie said, rolling his eyes like Tommy was the one being unreasonable, when, in Tommy’s opinion, he was being quite understanding, all things considered. The walls were slightly unsteady, but it didn’t matter. The wooden panels bent and folded in ways they shouldn’t, but it didn’t matter. Alfie sighed, leaned back in his chair with a creak of old wood. “I’ll fucking do it,” he said, “on one condition.” 

“What’s that?” Tommy asked, his voice monotone, because the apathy, at least, was genuine, and he didn’t stop to consider the irony of it. 

Alfie moved forward, creaking again, and the sound seemed to ring in Tommy’s ears, linger between them and echo off the walls of his brain. He put his elbows on the desk, his shirtsleeves rolled up, a brush of flour across his front. Fuck knew why. Tommy was surprised the warehouse even held any flour, but then again, perhaps it was yeast, not for the rising of bread. The floor felt like it was rising, too, coming up from his feet to swallow him, but he paid it no mind. 

“What’s your girl like?” Alfie asked suddenly, and Tommy rubbed his fingers together mindlessly, focusing more on the friction than the conversation. 

“What girl?” he asked, deflecting. 

“The redhead. My men say you’ve been seen with with, ‘round London. She fit, eh? Maybe I’ll take her.” 

“No,” Tommy said, flatly, not bothering to meet Alfie’s eyes, staring absently at a spiral in the pattern of the wood grain in the wall behind him instead. The bakery boomed behind them, clanged with metal, and Tommy was both in the room where the bosses met, and he was one of the workers, bare-backed and sweating in the heat, shoveling grain into boilers, he was the king and the subject all at once, and Alfie  _ tsked.  _

_ “ _ Well, come on now, mate, what if that’s it, then? Mean’s our deal’s off, hmm? Bad business, that is, Tom, very bad indeed.” He lowered his brows to observe Tommy from underneath them, which Tommy felt instead of saw, like the barrel of a gun being turned on him from behind his back. Tommy drug his eyes from the wiggling patterns in the wall, looked indolently back at him. Shook his head slowly. 

“She’s off the table,” he said, and Alfie’s nose twitched above his mustache. “We keep our personal lives separate from all this shit, Alfie. That’s the deal.”

“Separate, huh.” Alfie sniffed. “How’s your sister doing, mate? Nice and safe and fucking seperate?” 

Tommy’s jaw jerked to the side like he was a fish that had been caught on a hook, clenched so hard it made his teeth ache. He berated himself for the external show of emotion, but he wanted to stand up and slam Alfie’s head against the desk, wanted to fucking fight his way out of the shop with his fists and damn it all if he didn’t make it. He wanted his fucking gun, wanted to level it at Alfie’s head, at someone’s, anyone’s, it would have taken nothing to convince him to, nothing at all, and how dare he mention her, who the fuck did he think he was to speak about her-, 

“No such thing as separate, my friend. No such thing,” Alfie continued, and there was a flicker of something that crossed his face, maybe sympathy, maybe even empathy. “We swim through the same shit we create, you and me. We manifest it, you see. Breathe life fucking into it, don’t we? With our own fucking sweat and blood we make it, Tom.” He shook his head from side to side, made a disappointed face, frowning, eyebrows furrowed. “Can’t run from your own blood, Tommy. It runs in you. Nah,” he whispered. “No separation.” Tommy blinked. 

“You can’t have her,” he repeated, his voice and expression a mask of boredom, but Alfie’s words felt cold, like snow, like frozen steel, like the rain washing down over him while he was on his knees. 

“No?” Alfie asked, like he was snapping out of a trance, fiddling with a large brass ring on his second finger. “And why not?” 

“She’d just fucking shoot you,” Tommy said, and Alfie breathed sharply out of his nose, a laugh or a noise of dismissal, Tommy wasn’t certain, and didn’t care. “And because you don’t have the leverage to be making demands. We need each other. You know it. Without me in the way, the Perish will be coming straight fucking for ya. Knocking on your door before the tulips start to bloom, I’d imagine. And I told you, if I do come out on top, and you refused to help me… well. It’s like you said. It runs in us.” 

“Hmm,” was all Alfie replied with, rubbing his nose. He was always shifting, always moving. Tommy was still, but it felt like he was floating, like he wasn’t anchored, wasn’t tethered, it was just the drugs, he told himself, just the fucking ghosts in his veins. “Well, if she’s so fit and handy with a gun, yeah, the fuck you doing here for?” 

Tommy sighed, pinched between his eyes, leaning on his elbows. 

“Ah,” Alfie said, like everything suddenly made sense, like he had just completed the last piece of a puzzle. He spread his hands like Jesus at passover. “You’s fucking slipping, eh, Tom? Like a muddy hill.” 

Tommy snapped his eyes up, caught the heat spreading through him in a tight mental fist, held his thoughts together for one, vivid moment of clarity, let it shine through his face. 

“You know, Alfie,” he said, conversationally, taking his time with the words, letting them roll over his tongue across his cigarette, the smoke heady and thick in his nose. “In France… we thought we would die every day. You remember that? Every fucking day. And then I came back, and I still… still know that at any moment. Any moment. Done.” He blinked, stared, met Alfie’s shadowed eyes and did not look away. He never looked away, and he never fucking would. “And I know that the road to the top, it’s not a fucking muddy hill. It’s not a trench. It’s a pile of bodies you climb until you become a fucking part of it.” Alfie nodded a bit, very barely, the movement of his chin as slow as Tommy’s words, as slow as the time that was flowing in the room, eternal and endless, as they discussed fate and power. “You’re right. It fucking runs in us. But it’s not a muddy hill. And no, I’m not slipping.” He breathed in, thought about Ada, felt his fingers twitch, reach for some invisible trigger. “There’s nowhere to fucking fall.” 

“Alright, Tom. Alright.” Alfie said. Then he cocked his head. “Unless, of course, you’re already there.” 

Tommy didn’t respond, took a drag of his smoke, let it drift out past his teeth in an opaque cloud, obscuring his view of Alfie’s observant expression for a moment before it dissipated. 

“Keep your girl to yourself, then, you selfish bastard,” he grumbled, and Tommy blinked, because he couldn’t smile. Didn’t remember how. Didn’t want to. “I will help you, Mr. Shelby, alright? I fucking will.” 

Tommy nodded, but he had done enough talking, and the deal was made, and his mind was swirling, full to the brim of other things, spilling over. 

“And I am sorry to hear about your sister, mate,” Alfie said. Tommy cleared his throat, loudly, like he could drown out Alfie’s words, drown out the truth with sound and opium. “You take this,” Alfie said, and reached into his drawer, and Tommy had a few seconds to contemplate the fact that he was very possibly about to be shot point blank and there was absolutely nothing he could do about it, felt his muscles tense reflexively, his heart stutter, still clinging desperately to life when his mind accepted the concept with a vague sort of resignation, when Alfie slid the revolver across the desk with a grating noise of metal over wood. Tommy looked down at it for a moment. 

“How did you know I wasn’t armed?” he asked, and Alfie shrugged one shoulder idly. 

“You’dve shot me by now, you twitchy little gypsy.” Tommy snorted. “Just fucking take it, will you? Fuck,” Alfie said, and Tommy reached out and took the gun from the desk, and he felt like he was moving underwater, and he felt like he was drowing under it. He didn’t thank him, but he didn’t need to. They both knew already. 

“One week, Mr. Solomons,” he said, and he stood and left the room. 

  
  



	15. Sing To Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Talking to the mirror like I've seen him somewhere before  
He said I looked familiar, did we meet the other night?  
Somebody told me that there's two sides to this life  
I think I might have chosen darkness over light, and that's why  
I prayed, I prayed, God sent me right to voicemail  
It's like all day my vanity is for sale  
Take it away, my head is in my own hell  
Sing to me, I am not doing well  
Getting tired of my own words  
Sing to me, cause I can't hear myself through the loudness of my own hurts  
Call me selfish when I say this, I'm kind of helpless and I need you  
Sing to me, I am not doing well

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is for befham, who has been waiting for some TNT, and who should always get what she wants <3

  
  
  


“He’s back,” Polly said, in a low voice, not turning around from where she was staring out the window, like she had sensed his approach somehow and had known to be waiting for him. Her slim form was caught and wrapped in the low afternoon light, the sun starting to set beyond the edges of the Arrow House grounds. Tessa barely heard her, having only just walked into the room, her ears ringing. She had misjudged slightly the number of lines of snow were appropriate to someone of her size, something she was usually very adept at, trying in vain to keep up with Arthur, out of boredom and competition and grief. Of course, grief. Always, grief. It felt like her new best friend, her constant companion, taking Ada’s place. Her thoughts ran around the ring of her mind like a horse on a lead, in circles. Mum, Sam, Grandfather, Chase, Ada, Mum, Sam, and on and on and on, unless she cut through the mantra with the white powder. She joined Polly by the window, and she had been right, of course she had been right. Tommy’s car was pulling into the drive, the Bugatti’s silhouette sharp and dark. Tessa wasn’t sure how she felt, but that might have been the cocaine, blurring her thoughts around the edges. It was potent, whatever it was, it had been for days, like she had been on a boat in a storm the past week, tossed violently from one wave of emotion to the next, torn apart and asunder between them. Anger, she realized, and resentment, and relief, and sympathy, all at once, too much for her flooded mind to grasp, too much for her to face. She didn’t feel ready to see him, suddenly, even though she had spent days and days waiting for his return, waiting to make sure he was alright, to prove to herself that he was alright. Polly’s lips were pressed in a thin line as they watched him exit the vehicle from their spot by the window, but she offered no commentary. She had said nothing regarding his absence, and would not, Tessa knew, not yet. She was too intelligent to convince herself anything she said to Tommy at the moment would be given the briefest consideration. She was practical, she was political, she would wait. But Tessa felt a brief, intense flash of gratitude, because on Polly’s face was written, for a single second when she saw Tommy again, the same things raging in Tessa’s own heart. The anger, the sympathy, the relief, the resentment, the grief the grief the grief, and Tessa thought that Polly was, just then, the only person left who understood her in the world. 

“He’s a hard man to love,” Tessa said, watching him approach the house. From this distance, if anything in him had changed, it was not yet visible. He still walked with a gait somewhere between stiff, purposeful businessman and intimidating criminal, and of course he did. What better way to showcase the dichotomy of Thomas Shelby than in something as simple and evident as that, on arrogant display for all to see. He was wearing a cap, and it covered his eyes as he passed by their line of sight, and a coat, but a different one that Tessa had seen him in last. He had a flat in London, somewhere. Perhaps another house. She had never seen it. It occurred to her, horrendously belatedly, how much of the Shelby business she was truly ignorant of. She had known, obviously, but perhaps never much cared. She had not been particularly eager to become more entangled with the inner workings of the gang underworld than she already was by association, and she kept the dealings with the Perish separate in her mind, as if, if she did not consider any of it, the other avenues of income and conflict did not exist. But she had read Jack’s story. She was living in the house, she had witnessed his violence firsthand. And she saw the way he walked, and she had always known, known that one day she would have to face it, would have to decide how she truly felt about it, and part of her was afraid to, hesitant to, not because she thought that facing the truth would mean the end of her involvement with the Shelby’s, although that possibility worried her a bit as well. If she was honest with herself, she was more afraid that she might look at the rest of their lives, the horror and damage and danger they caused, and quite simply not care. She felt it especially strongly now, after Ada, like she had been pushed to the edge of a cliff she might just topple over, like Tommy, pushed past a point of no return, and it left her with an uneasy, apprehensive twisting in her stomach. 

“He’s different,” Polly said, and Tessa had been so lost in the loudness of her own thoughts that she had forgotten that she had spoken, or what she had said, the snow rushing through her veins until she could feel her own heartbeat, hear it in her ears. Polly said “different”, but somehow Tessa knew she meant “special”. Polly’s eyes were lined dark, her lips quirking upward in that shape they made that looked like a smile but somehow wasn’t one. “So we have to love him differently.” 

Tessa was spared a response by the opening of the front door, the heavy oak creaking. The house was surprisingly quiet for the number of occupants it held. Her father was in the nursery with Karl and two of Esme’s youngest, having taken over a good deal of the supervising duties, despite the abundance of maids. Karl loved him, and asked for his mother much less frequently when Leonard was present. It was likely good for both of them. John and Esme were off riding, Arthur was upstairs where Tessa had just left him, little blue bottle likely still in hand. Tessa had no concept of Michael’s whereabouts, and didn’t much care. And Ada was under the tree in the backyard, ever so silent. Tommy opened the drawing room door and stepped inside, and they both turned to face him, Polly catching her eye for the briefest of moments before regarding her nephew, her son, really, for all purposes. Tommy took his cap off idily, his dark hair ruffling with the motion, and didn’t speak. 

“Tommy,” Polly said, dryly, her tone like the crisp autumn leaves that shivered across the grounds outside the windows. “How kind of you to join us.” 

Tommy cleared his throat, and did not look at all abashed, but then, he very rarely did. Outwardly, in any case. Tessa suspected that internally he did feel remorse over missing his sister’s funeral. But perhaps that was just what she wanted to convince herself of. He gestured a bit with his hands, which were covered in black leather gloves. 

“Well, it is me house, Pol.” Tessa felt something in her loosen at the sound of his voice, like a clenched fist of anxiety releasing in her chest inadvertently. The colors of the room were very bright and her fingers were twitching, and she pressed on them before Tommy noticed, because he would notice, put pressure on the faintly painful left thumb. “Hello, Tessa,” he said, and she tried to smile at him but felt like she fell rather short. 

Polly tutted like she was unable to hold herself back from giving him a sliver of her mind. “Could’ve fooled me. Seems like everyone else’s house, now, ‘cept you, given that I haven’t seen you in it in ages.” 

Tommy sighed and crossed the room to a chair facing the fireplace, the open structure of the drawing room seeming to close in with his presence. He did that to places, energized them, made them feel taunt and teeming with potential, although currently, he himself looked anything but. Tessa had seen him in objectively much worse condition, on the night she had broken him out of the hospital with two bullet wounds, and she was fairly certain that if he had any sort of say in the matter, he would never let himself sink to such lows again. His dark three-piece suit was still impeccably tailored, his tie a dark maroon, the longer top of his hair elegant and combed, his eyes an electric jolt of blue. He looked exactly the same, but somehow he looked… heavier. Less in appearance and more as if the weight of the world was bearing down on his shoulders, and he sank into the chair with a lack of posture Tessa had rarely seen. 

“You lot never see me in any of the other houses, either, but those are all mine too,” he said, probably mostly to be vexing, Tessa thought, but it seemed to work. Polly huffed an irritated breath and crossed her arms over her chest, her beautiful face furrowing. 

“And whose fault would that be?” she countered, instead of reprimanding him for referring to the other houses as his, and Tommy dropped his skull back onto the headrest of the armchair so sharply Tessa wondered if it had hurt. His eyes fluttered closed, but his voice remained defiant. 

“D’you really want to talk to me about fucking blame, Polly?” 

Polly blinked at him, twice, angrily, not that he could see her. 

“She’s buried out back, if you’ve decided to find the time or care to see,” she snapped, and Tommy didn’t respond, kept his eyes closed. Polly turned to Tessa, who might have had the sense to be more apprehensive if she wasn’t so dazed from the snow. “Convince him to pay his respects to his sister, would you? See if he’ll actually fucking listen to you.” 

“I’m fucking right here, Pol,” Tommy said, his voice irritated, the half of his face that Tessa could see all sharp angles, cheekbones and jaw. 

“Then perhaps consider fucking acting like it,” Polly said, and, having gotten the last word, strode from the room with long strides, the sound of her heels muffled on the carpet. Tessa watched her go rather blankly, feeling like she wasn’t really there, until the door closed behind her dark, retreating form with a sharp _ slap _and jerked her mind back down. Tommy sighed again, deeply, from his spot in the chair. Tessa crossed over to him, sat down in the empty chair beside his and was quiet for a few moments, watching the dancing of the flames under the mantle. His breathing was soft and even. 

“She loves you,” she told him. “She just told me as much, not ten seconds before you walked in.” 

“I know,” Tommy said, like it weighed on him rather than comforted him, his eyebrows creasing ever so slightly. His head was still tilted back and his hair was brushed off his forehead, and there was a cut there nearly down to his eye, at least two inches down from under his dark hair. 

“You’re hurt,” she said, because it looked like it might require stitches, and he didn’t respond, but after a moment he opened his eyes, bright as stars, looked at her in a way that made her want to fucking climb under the chair she was sitting him so that she didn’t have to acknowledge her oblivious, shameful words. _ You’re hurt. _

“I’m fine,” he said, and she nodded, like she believed him, or maybe like a small surrender, a temporary allowance. He had been honest with her from the night they met. Or at least, more honest than he was with anyone else, as far as she knew. He was not being honest now, but honesty was not the sort of thing you could force out of someone, especially a man like Thomas Shelby. She was not a particularly patient person, but she would wait for now. For him. He did not ask how she was, but it was perhaps for the best, because her nose started bleeding again and she thought it would admittedly have been rather inopportune timing. She found it rather amusing, as she tried to discreetly stop the flow with the back of her fingers. “_ How are you, Tessa?” “Oh quite lovely, thanks, just ignore the blood,” _ and she had to hold back a wry smile that wrapped itself around her teeth despite her best intentions, but Tommy was not Jack, who would have asked such a question, who perhaps wouldn’t notice the blood that was getting on her teeth, she could taste it on her lips, coppery and metalic, and _ fuck _Jack, she hoped he fucking burned, and Tommy glanced sideways at her for a split second and then said, 

“Fuck, Tessa,” like she was some sort of liability that had just been called in, his voice harsh and impatient, shaking his head slightly. She glared at him, a gesture that was somewhat undermined by the fact that she had to pinch her nose while doing it, and then she noticed, likely with the help of the snow sharpening her senses, that he seemed dazed too, that perhaps he was avoiding her eyes as well because his were unfocused, and she scoffed and then laughed shortly, and muttered, 

“Fucking hypocrite,” and then he did turn to look at her and ran his tongue slowly over his bottom lip in that arrogant way he did, the picture of apathy, and they stared at each other for an amount of time Tessa was unable to distinguish. It might have been five seconds, it might have been five hours. It felt like about five years she spent swirling through his eyes the color ot teardrops, and she wondered if he had shed any for his sister, if he was even capable, if he would shed any for her if it had been her car wrapped around a lightpole. She didn’t think she had ever seen him cry. She swallowed back some blood and tipped her eyes up to the ceiling. “Are you going to kill him now?” she asked, and Tommy released a breath she doubted he knew he was holding. It sounded sharp, not relaxing, like his lungs had suddenly realized they had no choice. 

“Don’t get blood on me carpet,” he told her, and then he stood and walked out of the room. 

  
  
  
  


“Oi, where’s- oh, sorry,” Tessa said, stopping abruptly, her words halting as well. “Thought you were John.” 

“‘S’alright,” Michael said, standing from where he had been sitting at the kitchen table where the men often gathered, his cigarette smoking between his fingers. “Who were you looking for?” 

“Take a gander,” Tessa said, and then wished she hadn’t, because she and Michael were far from close and perhaps not the sort of mates who could be short with one another, but he smirked slightly, and she wanted to be relieved. She wanted to care what he thought about her, like she would have used to. She couldn’t. 

“Tommy’s in the stables,” he said, and Tessa nodded and gave him a quick jerk of her lips that she hoped would pass as an acceptably polite smile, and turned to leave, when he said, “Tessa?” in a voice quieter than she would have anticipated him to call to her with. 

“Yes?” she asked, brow furrowed, and she wasn’t in any particular hurry, but it was difficult for her to stand still, these days. She always felt like she was missing something, like she had to keep moving, keep searching for it. 

“I think he’s been going out there at night,” Michael admitted, his mouth held slightly crooked, like he was chewing on the words before he spat them out, to taste them and decide if he should. “All over the place, really. I went for a piss last night, round four, saw him get in his car, start the engine. He didn’t go anywhere, just sat there, but…, “ and Tessa just looked at him, because none of the things she wanted to say were true. 

“He doesn’t sleep,” she said, and he nodded. 

“Neither do you,” he told her, and she raised her eyebrows at him. He snorted. “You go to your room and close the door, but then it opens again, hours later. I can hear you wandering around. I notice things. That’s why they took me in. They say it was for blood, and with my mum that might be true. But the brothers… they’ve no use for dead weight. Need people who serve a purpose.” His brown eyes flickered down to the stone floor, then back up to her again. 

“It’s a wonder Thomas and I don’t bump into each other, I suppose, isn’t it,” Tessa said, to avoid saying anything. “Wandering around in the dark. You’d think it would be more likely.” 

An edge of his lip twitched. 

‘So what’s mine, then? My purpose?” She asked, unsure if she wanted to know, feeling like his next words could lock her in to a life, could choose for her, like the next twenty five years could depend on them entirely. 

“To dig him out,” he said. 

She blinked at him, once. The bottle of snow felt heavy in her pocket. “I think right now, all we’re digging is a shared grave,” she told him, but she couldn’t have said why she let the confession slip. 

“Tokyo makes it difficult to sleep,” he told her, and she did not appreciate the concern. She had enough people concerned with her wellbeing, and that was without counting herself among the number, because for the most part, she didn't. 

“Tommy can’t sleep because he’s looking for her,” she said. “And he can’t find her, because she isn’t here anymore.” 

“Dig him out, Tessa,” he said, asked, implored, and her lips froze while forming the words _ I’ll try. _

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just wanted to take a moment and thank all of my wonderful, wonderful readers, whose comments have been so especially lovely lately. I adore you all so so much and appreciate hearing your thoughts and reactions and opinions more than you will ever know. xoxo my babies


	16. Why A Butterfly Can't Love A Spider

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the sun I won't sleep  
But in the night I'm the devil  
My dreams are of hell  
Your dreams are of heaven  
Now, I'll show you something special  
And come and dance on my wire  
And these are the reasons why a butterfly can't love a spider
> 
> When I'm high, I'm in heaven  
When I'm low, I'm in hell  
When I'm up, I'm a sinner  
When I'm down, I am unwell
> 
> And it might keep you warm  
But you can't see the fire  
It might keep you calm  
But you're in love with a liar  
While you dance all night  
You watch as the web gets tighter  
These are the reasons why a butterfly can't love a spider

He felt her presence at the entrance of the stall rather than turning to look at her, like the stable had brightened suddenly, like the air had grown sweeter around him. She did that, wherever she went, without even realizing it. Made everything a little bit more saturated, cast her glow upon the world through nothing but her proximity. Or perhaps she only did that for him, but he doubted it. He had seen others respond to her pull, unable to resist. He felt it even now, like he did with all beautiful things, the desire to possess, to own, to control, buried but insistent. He remembered the first time he had seen her, through the morphine and the bullets, and thought to himself that he would have her, that he would not stop until she was his, like he could hold a tsunami in his cupped hands. And he fucking could. But another storm might rip him apart, and he knew it, and he could not, would not, refused to take the risk. He didn’t turn. 

“He’s in fine shape. Been riding him?” she asked, in her melodic voice, and Tommy said, “Yep.” 

The weather had turned cold but it was warmer in the stall, the heat that radiated from his huge black stallion so strong that he had removed his wool coat and hung it over the door Tessa was leaning against, his suspenders slipped off his shoulders. If she was May, she would have responded with a soft hum, would have pattered on about training and schedules and race committees. He would have been lulled by her ramblings, but not quite able to focus on them, his mind halfway somewhere else. But she was not May, and she did not abide by half measures or platitudes. 

“I had a conversation with Polly,” she said, instead. He halted his brushing over Dangerous’ lean flank, ceasing the repetitive motion. The horse knickered, trying to nudge past Tommy’s shoulder to get closer to Tessa, but Tommy leaned against him to back him up. Before, Tessa had joked that they should just swap horses, as Star was still endlessly devoted to him and difficult verging on impossible for her. Tommy still didn’t look at her, putting it off for as long as possible, though he wasn’t entirely sure why. “She told me to give you one more chance to tell me about the plan, but if you still refuse, she’ll let me in on it herself.” 

Tommy cleared his throat, patted some loose dust off of his horse’s dark coat, and turned. Her red hair was up, the color of melted copper and flame, and her eyelids were done in a dark shade of navy that made the irises look as grey as the outdoor sky, from where he stood a few feet away from her. Closer, he would be able to see the green, the blues, the color of the ocean in a hurricane. He could smell her perfume, nectar and sunlight, over the musky scent of horses and hay and the crisp winter air. He stared at her, wordlessly, and she didn’t look particularly excited about his visual inspection, but she didn’t look away, either. She raised her eyebrows expectedly. 

“So Polly’s going behind me fucking back now, eh?” he asked, leaning down to lift Dangerous’ forelock and inspect his hoof, make sure the shoe wasn’t loose, that the frog was clean. 

“Don’t be so defensive, it’s tiring,” she told him, and he only let her get away with it because the rebuke was unexpected. He would not do so again. The horse could use a trim, he ought to find his blacksmith and ask him why he had been neglecting his duties. “She’s making an executive decision as the treasurer of your company and the second in command. An avoidable one, mind you. You have the option of simply telling me yourself.” 

He did not respond, putting Dangerous’ foot back down onto the straw-strewn floor. 

“She’s angry with me,” he said, dismissively, after a few moments when it became evident that Tessa was not planning on leaving. He could hear her breath, softer than his horse’s, over the faint calling of late-migrating geese outside. 

“Yes,” Tessa agreed, in a tone that might have implied _ we all are _ or _ fucking obviously. _He hissed through his teeth. 

“Is that why you’re fucking teaming up against me?” he asked, sharply, straightening and turning to look at her, and he caught her pressing on the thumb of her left hand in irritation, hard enough to turn her skin white, her dark eyes rolling to the heavens like she was seeking divine intervention on his behalf, before she snapped, 

“Jesus _ Christ, _ Thomas, not everything is fucking about you!” her vowels clipped and choppy, her accent becoming more pronounced like it did whenever she was angry or raised her voice. It was quick to happen, now. Even easier than before. Dangerous knickered uneasily at the increased volume, the tension causing him to shift his large form from one side to the other, toss his long black mane, his strong neck tense under Tommy’s hand behind him. Tommy blinked at her, slowly. _ You can’t just take whatever you want all the time. _

“Most things,” he said, dipping his chin, his voice devoid of emotion, his eyes and face too. “Watch your fucking tone.” 

“Or _ what?” _she asked, crossing her arms, a blush of pink in her cheeks, looking more alive than she had for too long, he didn’t know how long. He wished he could not notice, wished he had a choice, but what he knew wasn’t up to him, it never was. All that was up to him was what he did with the things he saw. “Or what, you’ll take my eyes? Throw me in a canal? You’d do no such thing. Save your breath and empty threats, Thomas. I’m not afraid of you.” 

She shook her head slightly to accentuate the point, her collarbones pronounced from the breath she was holding in her chest. She looked small, suddenly, staring up at him, all hard eyes and slight shoulders. He could have cowered her, could have intruded on her space, gotten in her face and raised his voice, but it was unnecessary. Displays of false aggression were rarely necessary, and Tommy found them tiring and translucent. Strength exhibited when not required was strength wasted. He stood up straight, put his hand in his pocket, looked down at her. Shrugged, very slightly, like he couldn’t have fucking cared less what she chose to believe. 

“They’re not empty threats. You will not fucking undermine me. And I will keep you safe, by whatever means necessary.” His voice was soft, but she flinched like his words had been stones that hit her. She should be afraid of him, for other reasons, but it was true and they both knew it, that he would die before causing her lasting physical harm, that no matter what she did he could not bring himself to, and the knowledge made him feel weak and he hated that fucking feeling, over someone he could likely overpower with one hand. How devastatingly ironic, that she should be the thing that made him vulnerable above all else, a little American girl with freckles on her back and wrists so slim they looked made of bird’s bones. 

“Keep me safe by causing me pain? What kind of fucked up-,” she began, so angry her nostrils flared. 

“Welcome to the world, sweetheart,” he told her, flatly, and turned away again, and she made an indignant sound and said, “Tommy-,” grabbed his arm to turn him back, and he jerked her hand off but spun back, a warning in his eyes, and stepped closer to her, leaned down into her face. He could feel her breath on him in the cold air, like the warm breeze of spring in the winter, see the scuttling of her eyes across his face as she stared back at him. 

“Stop pushing, Tessa,” he commanded, and she snapped, “No,” and he hated when she did that, too, when she wouldn’t fucking listen, and he glared at her and she glared back and she was beautiful, pale white skin and dainty straight nose and wide, blown eyes and lips like parted petals and red red red hair framing it all like a picture at the Louvre. He sighed sharply, stepped back, ran a hand through his hair and wished he hadn’t because it made the cut on his forehead sting like he had walked through a hornet’s nest. 

“I’m building motorcars. An offset of the parent company. There’s a warehouse, where they’ll be produced. The largest of three. In London.” He breathed in, agitated, thought about his dope, thought about Ada, thought about the deal with Churchill, gestured with his hands while he spoke, trying to decide how much was too much. Tessa listened, her lashes so long they almost brushed her perfectly sculpted eyebrows when she blinked. “There’s to be a grand opening when the Shelby Company limited announces the motorcar division, when production is set to begin. A party, at the warehouse. All of the family will be there. Some of my business partners. And the Perish will come.” 

“Won’t they know it’s a trap?” Tessa asked, and he jerked his head instead of shrugging. She was chewing on her lower lip, white teeth flashing briefly, her fingers fluttering with intentional movement. She looked like a butterfly, all color and wings, never able to rest, to remain, always flying away, blocking your view of the sun for just a moment as you watched it become smaller and smaller in the sky. He shook his head, then, to clear it, because he needed some opium, needed to get a tether on his fucking thoughts, get a bouey into the ocean and cling on through the sprays of salty blue water. 

“Doesn’t matter. The elements of the plan that are meant to be a surprise will remain so until they occur.” 

She nodded, slowly, her graceful jaw shifting slightly. “And the fighter plane?” she asked, and he threw up his hands, and there was dirt on them instead of blood and for one glimmering, shining second, he was grateful. 

“Fucking Polly,” he said, and there was a sharp pressure behind his eyes that never seemed to really go away. “Yes. The British government is allowing me to use one of their planes from the war to solve this fucking... issue. Arthur will be flying it.”

“Allowing you to use it in exchange for what?” Tessa asked, and damn her intelligence to hell. 

“Churchill wants my assistance in controlling some of this country’s more defiant subjects,” he said, slowly, as evasively as he could. Her eyes widened anyway and she blinked at him in confusion, then realization. 

“Tell me you’re not talking about the _ fucking _Irish, Thomas,” she said, and he just looked at her. She put a slender hand over her mouth, fingers slim and ivory like piano keys. Her nails were longer, and he wondered if it was for the snow, and fuck, why did he have to notice everything? 

“Fuck, it’s never going to end,” she whispered, and he didn’t respond to that, either, because no, it wouldn’t. It couldn’t. Dirt instead of blood. If only dirt paid better. “Does Polly know?” she asked. Dangerous nudged him with his nose, and Tommy patted him unconsciously. The color was gone from Tessa’s cheeks, and she looked pale again, and it was his fault, all of it, always. 

“No.”

“So to win this war, you’re beginning another,” Tessa said, looking like she thought she should have deduced that this would be his plan. They always wanted to believe the best, his family. Innocent until proven guilty, and then innocent still, a hundred times after that. They were wrong. Wrong and misguided, but he envied them, for being able to even consider a world where you could expect positive outcomes, a life in which you weren’t always faced by the harrowing certainty of truth. Minds and hearts that were still able to allow themselves to develop expectations, and have them be let down, as they were wont to do, just to build them back up all over again. Hope. He missed that. 

“I told you I didn’t want you getting involved,” he told her, and she scoffed. 

“Because you were afraid I would force you to see sense?” she asked, and he threw a sideways glance at her, took his cigarettes out of his pocket. 

“It’s happening in five days,” he told her. “Saturday next.” He lit the match, and the faint flair of sulfur was sharp in his nose for a moment. His lighter was in his coat, along with his pocketwatch and knife. It was his habit to have both on him, as matches were a better bet to start fires, to blow fuses, more satisfying to let burn down to the tips of your fingers until you could feel their heat, simmering like the surface of a little, miniscule sun. 

“I want to be there,” she said, almost immediately, and he said, “No.” She worked her jaw slightly, and he wondered if she had been doing that more often since… well. He had just not seen her do it as frequently, before. 

“I’m going to be there,” she rephrased, and he shook his head. 

“Tessa-,” he started, pressing on his temple where the pain hid, trying to figure out how to get her to _ fucking _listen to him for once-, 

“I’m _ going,” _she snapped, and he inhaled sharply. 

“I will not _fucking_ lose you!” He shouted, his voice ringing against the iron bars above the wooden stall walls, cracking across the stone on the floor, the unspoken "too" hanging in the ringing silence after his words. He watched her recoil, before she could cover it, her flinch, saw the expression, half a challenge, half rebuke, and he hadn’t meant to raise his voice, his temper, but she always _ did _that, got to him when nothing else could, got under his skin and never let go, hid there and tore him apart. She stared at him, and her face was set, iron behind her delicate beauty, a steel rose. 

“Well, if you try to stop me,” she said, deadly quiet, her lovely lips turned in a slight frown, “you’re going to, anyway. So I suppose you don’t have much of a choice.” And he watched her go, head held high on her graceful neck, taking all the color and light and beauty in the world with her as she did. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> our crazy babies :,)


	17. Glory and Gore

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> But in all chaos there is calculation  
Dropping glasses just to hear them break
> 
> Glory and gore go hand in hand, that's why we're making headlines
> 
> I don't ever think about death  
It's all right if you do, it's fine  
Wide awake in bed, words in my brain:  
"Secretly you love this, do you even wanna go free?"  
Let me in the ring, I'll show you what that big word means

“Should fucking go out tonight, Tom, mate, I’m telling you. ‘S you who’s always going on about how we’s to show our faces ‘round the pubs we own, not give ‘em the excuse to forget ‘em, anyways,” Arthur said, as Tommy filled a crystal glass at the mini bar, the heavy whiskey tumbler running concerningly low. It was no matter, really. He had more. He could send a maid to fetch it from the cellar. He didn’t respond, because Arthur was right and he was loath to fucking admit it, because he had not even the slightest inclination to speak to anyone at all. He rubbed the cut on his forehead idly with the back of his thumb, the stopper of the nearly-empty bottle pressed between his fingers. Arthur was puffing on a cigar a bit too twichily for his proposal to be entirely genuine, like it wasn’t a ploy to get Tommy to… do something. He wasn’t sure what. He wasn’t ever entirely sure what they all wanted from him, but he was usually entirely sure he wasn’t capable of providing whatever it was. Money, he could give them. Power. Influence. A version of himself from the past, one where he was earnest and naive and whole? That he could not do. He poured the whiskey and it slipped into the glass like satin of a woman’s dress through his fingers. 

“What’dya say, Tom, hmm? We get John. Bring Michael, even. Get some of this fucking weight off of us, get us some fucking whiskey and women.” 

“There’s whiskey and women here, Arthur,” Tommy said, very barely wry, but Arthur caught it. Arthur knew his voice like the sun knows the earth it smiles over. 

“Eh. Yeahhh, but how likely are you to benefit from that fact tonight?” His brother asked, his eyes glinting, the rough cadence of his words low and rolling. His convincing voice. Tommy knew his too, knew it better than his mother’s, his father’s. _ Come on, wee bruva! _ It echoed, through the ages, through the years, conjoining. _ Or is you so fucking little you can’t keep up? _They were children again, racing through the streets of Small Heath, knobby elbows and knees and soot streaked up their bare legs like black stockings. 

“Alright, fine,” he said, and Arthur looked extremely taken aback, but pleased. His excuse, however, of needing to show their faces in Birmingham, was actually legitimate, probably more legitimate than Arthur was truly aware of. Birmingham was their city, and the Perish would need reminding of that, which was not done by keeping his family cowered inside one house. More than that, however, was the truth, which was that Tommy had a professional concern regarding one of their nearby clubs that he needed to investigate anyway. Strategically, it was the only option. But the pain in his temple throbbed when he considered actually having to go through with it, and he debated downing the rest of the whiskey in his shimmering crystal bottle in preparation. 

“There you fucking go, Tom, that’s a good man,” Arthur said, leaping to his feet like a grasshopper in a three-piece suit, and Tommy was momentarily, bizarrely reminded of some character from a children’s storybook or something along those lines, and then he thought, immdeidately, reflexivley, that he would have to remember to tell Ada his little internal joke, and then it felt like his bowels had been yanked out through his feet. Arthur was saying something else, but Tommy wasn’t listening, just nodding slightly at his brother, agreeing blindly. But in his mind he was hearing his sister lean over to whisper something funny in his ear while kneeling in the pews when their mother had forced them to attend church, smelling her scent of lavender and lilacs, seeing her two missing teeth, and then Arthur’s form was slipping back in front of him, and the world was tilting, and he thought he might be about to black out. 

“Tom?” Arthur asked, cautiously, and his vision snapped back to center behind his eyes, like a righted camera. 

“I’m fine,” Tommy said, not sure that’s what he had been asked, but willing to bet. Arthur pressed his lips together and nodded, unconvinced, concerned. Tommy shook his head. “You look like fucking Polly with that face,” Tommy muttered, and Arthur snorted. “Just go get the others. I’ll get a driver.” 

Arthur grinned and tossed him something that clanged in the air without warning. Tommy jerked a hand up to catch it reflexively, like getting tossed a pulled grenade. 

“Nah, mate. You’ll be driving.” 

“Trying to get me to wreck me fucking car, eh?” Tommy asked, looking down at the faintly reflective silver of his keys in his palm, and Arthur shrugged his thin shoulders and frowned slightly. 

“Nothin’ll make you feel more alive,” Arthur said, flipping him the bird as he left the room, and the words nearly made Tommy flinch with their unintended meaning. He sighed and bit his tongue behind his teeth, hard enough that it burned when he took a swig of his whiskey, and then another. 

  
  
  
  


“You should slow down,” Polly told her, and saw her straighten hastily, as if that could make things less obvious. Tessa sniffed and wiped her nose with the back of her hand, shook her head slightly. She even looked elegant doing snow, not dainty, particularly, but poised. All of that good breeding, and money, and education, just to look better than the commoners while sniffing cocaine. 

“Why?” Tessa asked, flippantly, brushing the white residue off the long oak table with slim fingers. 

“You’ll see,” Polly said, and it was true, but Tessa shot her a look in response to her cryptic words. “The boys are out.” 

“Mm,” was all Tessa said, her heeled foot bouncing slightly where her legs were crossed under the hem of her dress. She reminded Polly of Ada in that moment, when she had been a teenager, closed-off and hostile, but Tessa had reason beyond bodily changes and silly crushes. Polly knew that. That was why she had brought the wine. 

“Thought we could stay in,” she said, lifting the bottle slightly to gesture with it. Tessa glanced at it, then at her, then gave a delicate half shrug, and then suddenly she reminded her of Tommy, again, like she sometimes did, flippant and removed, but where Tommy was cold, Tessa burned. The fire glinted in the grate behind her where she sat at the head of the table, catching on strands of her hair and turning them to spun gold, like the most precious of spiderwebs. Polly sat, one leg crossed over the other, and popped the cork on the bottle. It made a dull echoing sound of the walls, and Tessa, despite all her class, didn’t comment on the lack of glasses, just accepted the bottle when Polly handed it to her. 

“I like you,” Polly said, flicking her fingers at her vaguely as if there was any question to whom she was referring. Tessa already knew that, Polly could tell, and it was partially because she already knew that it was true at all. Tessa smirked a bit when she tipped the bottle and took a swig, not a sip, and said, 

“Thank you, Polly,” in a dry voice once she had swallowed. Polly regarded her, critically, it was true, but Tessa only glanced at her for a moment before letting her stare without comment. 

“You’re good for him. Push him when he needs to move, hold him back when he needs to be kept still.” _ Ice and its fire, _she thought. 

“I don’t know about that,” Tessa said, looking down the black neck of the bottle, like it was a portal to hell. “It certainly hasn’t been the case recently.” Her voice really was odd, some words smooth and refined like the way they spoke in high London society, some crisp and American, missing the twang of New York or the slur of Boston. Chicago, Tessa had said once, the “a” catching her voice, moving her chin. It gave her a lilting, musical quality when she spoke. 

“Been fighting?” Polly asked, and she missed her daughter, suddenly, missed the experience she had never gotten to have with one of her own, and never would, and then she missed Ada, missed her coming home to tell her aunt about the stupid boys at the school. Tessa pulled her full bottom lip between her teeth, let it go. 

“Yes,” she said, “But we always do. It’s just the same ones, now, round and round like a photograph reel.”

“So he didn’t tell you about the plan?” Polly asked, reaching into the pocket of her light coat for her cigarettes, momentarily afraid she had left them upstairs in the bedroom she had been occupying. Nine bedrooms, this house had, and nearly all of them full at the moment. But then her fingers slid over the cool metal of the case, her thumb flicking it open instinctively. 

“He did, actually,” Tessa said, bowing her head slightly, making the shadows slip over the angles of her cheekbones, her cupid’s bow, the crease in her forehead due to the concerned pull of her brow. “But he’ll never let me actually be beneficial, or involved in any way.” 

“‘Let you’,” Polly said, scoffing, speaking around the clove between her lips. “As if there’s a thing in this world could stop you doing what you want. That’s why he likes you,” she said, pointing at Tessa with her unlit cigarette. 

“He’s never actually told me why he likes me,” she muttered, frowning slightly, like she had never considered it before. Polly flicked her lighter, the little orange flame looking like a tiny, escaped flicker of the roaring fire in the grate before them where they sat at the head of the huge table, the smoke thick and the room warm on the front of Polly’s legs, drafty and cold on her back, like the touch of a stranger on one side and the embrace of a lover on the other. 

“Well, why do you like him, then?” Polly asked, because she was curious, fine. Curious to know what a posh girl really saw in her Tommy, whether she was able to see him down deep, or if she had just decided the money and the looks could make up for everything else. To her surprise, Tessa let out a short, ironic laugh, her white teeth catching the light, bright as the diamonds around her neck. 

“Christ, sometimes I fucking don’t,” she said, but she still looked amused, her mouth warped slightly. “He’s a right twat sometimes, and I don’t blame you one bit for the way her turned out, you know. You did your best and better than anyone could have. But he’s just _so _stubborn and callous, sometimes, and cold, and he just keeps all of this shit inside of him and troops on like it’s… like a person is capable of preserving their own safety when continuing on like that but of course _he_ _can _because he doesn’t give a soaring fuck about his own safety and also because _of course he can_, he’s Tommy Shelby and he can do anything. He can do anything, right, so why bother with little things like self preservation that don’t apply to him? And it makes me so _angry _because I can hardly look after myself, much less him, so no, I don’t always like him. He’s absolutely infuriating, to the degree that sometimes I want to shoot him. Sometimes I hate him.” She huffed another laugh, like she was telling herself it was funny, and Polly let her talk, let the words spill out of her cracks like a broken dam. “But I love him,” Tessa said, her eyes far away. “I love him when I don’t like him, I love him when I hate him, love him even when I want to point my gun between his eyes. God,” she said, putting her head in her hands, her hair like a crown of rubies, a lion’s mane, and they say that only the lionesses hunt and the males just sit around and wait for the prey to be brought to them, and Polly knew it to be true. “God, it’s so fucking stupid. _I’m _so stupid. Anyone else… anyone else, any other man, I could have eating out of the palm of my hand, because normally they’re the bumbling, emotional ones, even as much as they feign not to be, as much as they pretend it’s us women who are lovestruck fools. But we have to look out for ourselves, is what they don’t realize. And we’re meant to put that above all.” She sighed. 

“But he isn’t any other man,” Polly said, taking a drag of her smoke, the earthy, herbal smell sharp and familiar in her nose, woodsy and dark interlaced with the glimmer of Tessa’s perfume, citrus and florals. Tessa shook her head in agreement. 

“No. He’s not.” She took a drink of the wine, looked into the flames. “And I’m not a rational, practical person. I never have been, I’ve never had to be. But if I had known my tendencies would land me in this much trouble, perhaps I would have strived harder to attain those abilities when I could have possibly managed to.” 

“Rational people can’t escape from him, either, turns out, so don’t bother yourself overmuch about it,” Polly said, reaching for the bottle, which Tessa handed back to her with a slight sloshing sound. 

“Self-proclaimed?” Tessa asked, and Polly smirked. 

“Romantic rationalist, perhaps,” she said, and Tessa smiled back, but her eyes didn’t crinkle at the corners, so Polly doubted it was real. She was good at knowing that, when a person was being real and when they weren’t. But perhaps it was best to disguise it, for now. Perhaps Tessa was right to pretend, at least until it could be true again. 

“Are we fools, Pol?” She asked, and what she really meant was, _ Am I a fool? _

“Oh, yes,” Polly said, crossing her feet at the ankles and drawing them up into her chair like a child. “But everyone fucking is.” 

“Even Tommy?” Tessa asked, and Polly had forgotten that she had never met him, before. Before they dropped bombs on him and buried him in the earth and told him to kill and kill until it was all he remembered how to do. 

“Especially Tommy,” she told her. Tessa just looked at her, like she was searching her face for traces of her nephew. 

“I like his eyes,” she said, after a few moments of silence, her voice soft and quiet, like a conspiratorial whisper. “I liked them so much the first time I saw them when he was lying there in that hospital bed that I threw myself in front of three armed Germans for him, some stranger with blue eyes, without a second thought.”

“His mother had those eyes,” Polly said. “Like blue fire. Drove his father crazy, he used to come home and talk ‘bout them.”

Tessa twitched her lip, but her own, almond eyes were still downcast, like they were too heavy to pick up from her feet. “And I like his sense of humor. He’s rather funny, really, it just takes a bit to get used to.” Tessa sighed, and that was soft too, but it was cut short, her breathing rapid from the drugs. Wind creaked outside, through the house, echoed against the popping of the logs in the hearth like breath against her neck, and Polly leaned closer to the flames. 

“He’s always been the one could get me to laugh, too. If he wanted to.” Polly tapped the ring of her second finger against the glass bottle, listening to the faint clink. She felt a flash of pity that she had not anticipated, sympathy for the beautiful girl sitting in front of her. For all her fire, it was being drowned out in a downpour of tragedy. For all her flames, Polly did not believe she was a match for him. No one was. Not like this. “I do like you, Tessa. I do.” She tapped twice more, waited for Tessa’s gaze to lift; when it did, her pupils were black like onyx. “And that’s why I’m telling you, that this life, it ends bloody and it hurts you long before that. And you have been hurt enough already.” Tessa’s small chin worked from side to side, tendrils of red spiraling down from where her hair was pinned up, fluttering against her smooth cheeks. 

“And Tommy?” Tessa asked, her eyes blank, hollow, wandering slowly around the room even as Polly watched her intently. 

“Will hurt you too. Probably even worst of all.” 

“So why haven’t you all just left?” Tessa asked, slowly, her gaze suddenly snapping up, their eyes locking. Polly raised an eyebrow warningly, let her expression convey the threat as she took another drag. Tessa stared back. 

“We made the choice. I want you to know what you’re getting yourself into. If you do indeed become a Shelby.”  
“It isn’t as if we’re getting married-,” Tessa said, dismissively, flicking her hand as if to dismiss the thought, and Polly held up her own to stop her words. 

“I’m not talking marriage. I’m talking once he’s chosen you, he will not let you go. Because Tommy doesn’t let go. Of anything. So you make your own choice, and you make it on purpose.” 

Tessa looked like she wanted to retort, perhaps angrily, but she bit her lip instead, inhaling. The gravity of Polly’s tone had convinced her, perhaps. Or maybe she had achieved her fill of fighting members of the Shelby family for one day. “Alright,” she said, releasing her breath. “I understand.” 

“Good. More wine, I think,” Polly said, taking a sip, the sharp, fruity taste reminding her of communion, of conversations with God. Conversations about him. Rather like they were doing now. Two women who had accidentally become entangled in the wrong religion, kneeling at an altar of pride and money. The wine was turning Tessa’s pink lips red at the center, bright like blood against the paleness of her cheeks. She had fair skin like Tommy’s, cream to his alabaster. Two beautiful people. Tommy used it to his advantage, he used everything to his advantage. Tessa was less calculated in her interactions, bright and burning for everyone to see. “You’ve been in the papers, recently. More and more articles are getting published around our name, these days, and of course you’re implicated because of it. The positive side,” Polly said, pausing to take a drink, “is the general consensus seems to be that you’re a good girl who got involved with the wrong people, that you’re being held against your own will. Kidnapped, essentially, by a crime syndicate.” 

Tessa snorted. “I have been kidnapped by a crime syndicate. Just not this one.” 

“The summons will come any day now. Tommy is keeping the coppers from our door until the threat of the Perish is extinguished, or…,” she trailed off, shrugging one shoulder, breathing out some heady smoke and tapping her ashes onto the table, next to the few, glimmering crystals of Tessa’s cocaine. 

“Or we all die,” Tessa finished, harshly, and Polly nodded. 

“One problem at a time,” she said, taking the bottle back from Tessa’s fingers, which were undoubtedly numb, because the girl didn’t even seem to notice. “You know, they’re calling you ‘the Birmingham Angel’.” 

Tessa laughed, suddenly, the sound sparkling like gold coins, like bells in summer air. “I’m not even _ from _Birmingham,” she said, and Polly dipped her chin in acknowledgement. 

“Which they would know, the moment they heard you speak,” she said, watching her. Tessa still looked amused, unafraid. 

“I don’t have a lot to say to the press,” she muttered around the lip of the wine. 

“Unless ‘the press’ is Jack Fischer,” Polly said, and Tessa swallowed, hard, put the nearly-empty glass bottle down on the table hard enough that it rang. He jerked her head. 

“Yes. He and I have much to discuss.”

“Tommy can’t kill him,” Polly said, reaching down to untie her heel, to pull it off. She wasn’t sure if this was something Tessa was already aware of, but she would be, eventually, anyway. “He did, he might as well shoot him in front of a judge, it would be so obvious. And we can’t have that kind of scrutiny right now.” 

“I know,” Tessa said, through gritted teeth, and Polly took off her other shoe, her feet in a state of blissful relief. She had gotten so used to all these minor pains, the bigger ones were much the same to her, now. The death of her husband, her daughter, the violation of her son. She dealt with them like sore feet, pushed back until the end of the day, when it crept up on her through the minutes and hours. But Ada. Ada felt like a blade had been shoved in her ribcage, every second, and she could hardly move, could hardly continue, until she found a way to dislodge it. 

“But you could,” she said, to take out the blade in her heart, and Tessa’s long lashes fluttered as she blinked, and blinked, and did not look away. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter and the next are like... sister... chapters? it's called ~parallelism~ alright I have English Degrees  
so I'll be posting them at the same time hooty hoo 
> 
> I fucking don't know why I said hooty hoo im sorry


	18. Drugs & Money

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I think I'm a god or some other shit  
You know how I get when I'm in my head  
Damn, I love it  
Maybe I should drop it, pick a different subject  
Maybe it's deliberate if it's lacking substance  
Money and drugs are all I think about

Tommy wasn’t fucking speaking now that they had managed to drag him out of the house, which was absolutely fucking predictable. Arthur wanted to pretend like he didn’t understand why they were all acting as if what Tommy was going through was worse than what had happened to the whole lot of them, but he couldn’t. Tommy had been Ada’s favorite. Tommy was everyone’s favorite, and it wasn’t even something you could be angry at him for, because chances were that he was your favorite, too, despite it, despite everything. So Arthur wasn’t angry that it was his brother whose well-being he was meant to ensure, over his own, and he wasn’t angry about why. He didn’t give two shits about his own well-being, really, but what did anger him was that he hadn’t protected his little sister. He had failed her, and although Tommy put himself above Arthur in many things, now, this was one task he and only he could perform. He was the big brother. He needed to look out for the rest of them. So he did, in the only way their father had ever taught him how. 

“AN’NOTHA!” He called, slapping the top of the table with his palm, misjudging the distance slightly and hitting it hard enough to make his hand sting. John groaned and touched his forehead to the table, resting it there for a moment to control the spins, and Michael patted him on the back rather haphazardly, in an even worse state, his eyes glazed over. Tommy only blinked, looking out onto the rest of the club with a vacant expression, but Arthur saw him sigh, and he wondered just how much his brother was drinking, these days. More than him? Years ago, they used to play games to see who could hold more liquor, and Arthur had won more often than not. But he didn’t know, now. Felt like there was a lot about Tommy he didn’t know anymore, if there was even anything left to know. The waitress came, her silver dress short, displaying long, slim legs, carrying her tray of little white glasses, because this was a semi-respectable establishment, and that meant, for whatever reason, that you could only order your drinks in tiny portions at one time, because that absurdity classified you above the rest of the rabble who did the logical thing and just kept the bottle at the fucking table. The only explanation for this Arthur could come up with being that they wanted to keep their waitresses as trim as the one in front of him was, from all the walking back and forth to carry it. She put the glasses down on the round table, made from a polished black stone, and if they _ clinked _on its surface it was drowned out by the loud jazz echoing from the stage to their left, another, to their right, crowded with scantily clad dancers who sometimes made their way down to mingle with the rest of the club’s occupants. The room was large and dark, and it felt like it was beating, like a heart, or perhaps it was the vibrations of the drums. Arthur fucking hated the blaring music, but he was exceptionally content with the venue’s choice in staff. The waitress, whose short blonde hair was done in tight curls, was staring rather obviously at Tommy as she put their glasses down, but he was acting as if he didn’t notice, even though Arthur knew he had, because it was Tommy, and of course he did. The real fucking mystery was whether he was feigning ignorance because he was truly uninterested or because it was an intentional choice to manipulate, always to manipulate, someone, somehow. John had realized, or perhaps been rather prepared for, what was happening, and he traded a sideways look with Arthur, who smirked into his glass before swallowing it. Probably the same shit their new motorcars ran on. Fucking tasted like it. Michael, however, was dizzily observing the stage that the dancers were twirling on, entranced, unaware of the new, if not particularly surprising, development. Tommy finally deigned to tear his eyes from the flashing bronze of the trumpet player on the left stage to glance at the waitress, who was only a few seconds away from the length of her gaze being rude, but Tommy flicked his eyes slowly down her in that way he did that women always loved, and then she was smiling slightly, blushing, her chin ducked, and turning away, her earrings and necklace glinting in the low light, much too expensive to have been purchased with a waitress’ wages. 

“We have whores here?” Tommy asked, over the strains of so-called music, which was likely more words than he had said since they had arrived. 

“Don’t think so,” John said, but it was Arthur who would know. They didn’t, officially, but it wasn’t the Blinders job to figure out what every pretty girl in Birmingham did in their spare time. He wasn’t sure if Tommy was asking out of personal or professional curiosity, but he hardly ever did. There didn’t seem to be much distinction, anyway. 

“Nah,” Arthur said, reaching for John’s drink before he noticed, as he was craning his neck to look back at the retreated waitress. He turned back just as Arthur was lifting the little glass, and said, “Oi! Put that down, you fucker,” and Arthur made a mocking sort of face but set the clear liquid back on the table, and it looked just like water. The nectar of life. “There’s two of them now, staring. The waitress and a fucking dancer,” John said, elbows on the table, leaning foreward to keep his voice low. He glanced back again. “Fuck. Three. Another dancer.” 

“Good, one for each,” Arthur mumbled, and Tommy snorted. Michael shot him a look, irritated at being excluded, but said nothing, perhaps because he was currently incapable of coherent speech. 

“Oh, come now, brother. You and your snow would need at least two.” Tommy said, and Arthur turned to him, lips curling, and gave Tommy a salute, watched as his brother lifted his own glass to his lips, swallowed, then swiped John’s from where Arthur had just put it down, and tossed it too, head knocked back and Adam’s apple bobbing. 

“You’re both fucking pricks,” John said, finger pointed in accusation, then lowering slowly. He shook his head, looking astounded and amused, his mouth open slightly, neatly combed hair shining in the dark light from the low lamps, everything around them velvet and stone. “They’re fucking coming over,” he said, his disbelief and game written all over his face. 

“We getting recognized or not recognized?” Tommy asked in Arthur’s ear, and Arthur ticked his head. 

“Bit ‘o both,” he said, and Tommy smiled for the first time since he had gotten back, but it was too sharp, like the flashing grin of a shark. His arm was draped elegantly, arrogantly, over the back of his chair. 

“Ladies,” he said, looking up at their new companions, his voice accompanied by the clicking of approaching heels, the high strain of nervous laughter. John smirked and raised his eyebrows at Arthur from across the table, the picture of mirth, and Arthur suppressed a snort, the energy in the room flowing like the blood in his veins, and it felt like France again, just a night out on whatever town they happened to be stationed in, before they were separated, and Michael looked torn between apprehension and approval, an awestruck grin just barely tugging on his lips. 

“Stay for a drink,” Tommy said, gesturing at the table, as Michael took his shot of gin or vodka or whatever it was they had been brought, Arthur could hardly tell anymore, which he probably shouldn’t have, but it wasn’t up to Arthur to teach him that lesson. The drink would do it all on its own. 

“Oh, we-we couldn’t, sir. We’re working,” one of the girls responded, the one in the middle, who had shining brown hair, cut into a bob that framed her slim face. “Just thought we ought to welcome you properly, introduce ourselves. It’s only polite,” she said, and it was obviously rehearsed, prepared, but her voice still shook slightly, like she was taken aback by her own direct audacity. The blonde waitress seemed much less restrained, her gaze moving to Michael, whose eyes widened so far Arthur was afraid they might pop out of his skull. John sniggered behind his hand but managed to pass it off as some kind of cough. 

“I’m sure your boss wouldn’t mind,” Tommy said, smoothly, and the three women exchanged a glance. The third was blonde, too, but a much tamer shade than the waitress with the curls. Another dancer, based on her outfit, sparkling and revealing. Arthur let his gaze run over her, let her notice his approval. There were three expressions of mild confusion mirrored on the girl’s faces, but Tommy didn’t give them the chance to respond before turning to the waitress. “What’s your name, then?” he asked, and she hesitated, looking suddenly less bold with his full attention turned to her and her alone. 

“Its Mary,” she said, having to raise her voice over the cascading music, and Arthur and John smirked, because Tommy had a maid named Mary, and she was about as far removed from the woman standing in front of them in a low-cut dress as a person could possibly be. 

“Mary,” Tommy said, nodding, like he was contemplating the name. His chin was lifted, his jawline strong and sharp. “Would you like to stay for a drink?” 

“I- I would, but…,” she trailed off, and Tommy ticked his eyebrows up in a prompting gesture, _ Well? _ Looking like a prince, just some young john looking for excuses to blow his family’s fortune, the picture of what the women likely believed him to be, were convincing themselves he was. _ Can’t be as dangerous as he looks. Can’t be, _he knew they thought. Thought wrong. 

“Go and fetch us a bottle, Mary. And tell your boss Tommy Shelby said the three of you are excused for the night.” The note of authority in his voice carried over the trumpets, the drums, the voices, over the gates of heaven itself. 

“By order of the Peaky Blinders,” Arthur said, toasting the women with his empty glass, a shame, really, but it would be remedied soon enough, when she obeyed, and she would obey, they always obeyed Tommy, and the expressions of confusion changed to shock. _ Not recognized, then, _Arthur thought, but they knew now, and he saw the glances they exchanged, the silent conversation taking place, the debate, the giddy consensus. Then Mary smiled. 

“Yes, Mr. Shelby,” she said, and turned to do as he bid, her hips swaying to the pounding of the drums and silver dress flashing like a flipped coin. Michael let out an incredulous laugh. 

“Told you we needed Tommy to come,” Arthur said to John, who grinned. 

“Yeah, well, the bastard owes me a fucking shot now, anyway,” he said, and the voices spun and blurred in Arthur’s ears, his brothers, who were there, right in front of him, there and alive and safe. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> some fun perspectives recently! weeee  
also, I have Nonsense To Spew:  
1\. I have to GENUINELY stop myself from making every song in the playlist like. trap rap. because I am in loveeee with the idea of Peaky having a gangster ass soundtrack. I live for period dramas set to modern music in general, which is part of the reason I love the show so much, but like... come on. Tommy ft. Kanye? I can't be the only one.   
2\. I saw this band in concert once and the lead singer was three feet in front of me but it took me a very long time to notice and I do not really remember the rest of the night lmao  
3\. yesterday I was given a love poem from this dude who has decided I am his soulmate. the context for this being, very importantly, that he is at LEAST 70 years old. completely unrelated to this fic but I am still reeling from it  
anyway I should be getting more writing done in the next few days, hopefully you are all having a good week without retirees trying to seduce you. also, stay away from double vodka shots if you want to actually be present for concerts you paid to attend #lifehack I know thank me later


	19. DEVILISH

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I only exist to fall

Things felt fast and slow all at once, sharp and blurred. There were spotlights moving across the stage in a distracting movement his eyes kept flickering over to, a buzz in his ears even over the vibration of the music, the drum loud and strong enough to shake through the floor and up the heels of his feet. Their table was close to the left stage, just tucked away from the dancefloor a bit, and he wondered why Tommy has chosen it, not a private room or a secluded seat on the balcony. He would have a reason, he always did, and Michael wanted to know it, to understand it, wanted to learn from it, to emulate it. He wanted most of the things Tommy had, and he was being groomed for them, meant to observe his cousin, his choices, figure out how to make those same choices himself. So why the table where they would be most obvious, the most conspicuous? If Michael came up with an answer, it was lost to the bottle of whiskey Arthur had blindly passed to him, lost in the lovely push of the dancer’s chest, her costume speaking of daring temptation. It was lost, all of it, in color and sensation, pushing on his mind from its intensity. His cousins were being fawned upon, the depiction of masculine extravagance. Michael had the dark haired dancer on his lap, and she smelled of spices, something forigen and eternal that he had no memories tied to, like it was the first time he had experienced the scent in his life, like a new color, something entirely different. The room spun back and forth before his eyes when he moved them, like everything took a moment to resettle after he adjusted his vision. The dancer’s skin was soft like the sheets at Arrow House, fine and smooth, he could feel it where her arm was draped behind his neck, she had told him her name and he had forgotten. Arthur had his arms around two women, one around a seated girl’s shoulder, another by her waist where she stood beside him, her head thrown back in laughter that Michael couldn’t seem to hear. John had his hand slipped up the inside of a skirt, Michael thought, or maybe he was just reaching for his drink, Tommy had a woman on his lap as well, the blonde waitress, Mary, her name was Mary, if only he could remember the name of the dark girl so close to him that smelled of things he had never known before. Mary was speaking, in his ear, Michael could see her mouth moving, Tommy’s hard stare flashing out across the room for a moment, his jaw set like he was considering something- 

John left with the girl he was touching or the bottle he was holding, the bottle he was touching or the girl he was holding, the band trumpeted on, Michael’s mind spun, the dancer warm on his lap, he forced his eyes to open again, to focus- 

The waitress was between Tommy’s legs, kneeling, Michael blinked like maybe his vision was distorted, but no, her bare legs right on the dancefloor, and she was asking him something, a question, he could tell by the way her brows lifted under her bangs when she finished speaking, the dancer on Michael’s lap asked him something too, he thought, she said something, of that he was sure at least- 

Tommy leaned forward, responded, light flashing over his cheekbones, his face inches from hers, a smile on her face and her fingers dragging up his thighs, and he took her chin in his hand, kissed her, and the drums pounded, then they were standing together, he was offering her his hand- 

The room spun like it was on it’s own track around the sun, the earth’s axis tilting and swaying, Michael’s hands moved in front of his eyes slowly, like fish in a pond- 

Arthur had his two women and his glass filled and his snow lined on the table, uncovered like he was daring something, anything, to try to rebuke him, Tommy and the waitress were leaving, and for a moment when he passed the table, his hand low on her waist, the brush of his aftershave melted for a brief moment into the spice of the dancer on Michael’s lap’s skin, and the world smelled like power, like money and influence, sex and drugs, and Michael wondered if that was what he was most drunk off of, flowing around him,- 

Tommy’s dark head was disappearing into the crowd- 

_ This river is made of more than just souls and we are baptized in it, _Michael thought, and then his thoughts faded out. 

  
  


Mary tasted like coconuts and that was how he knew. But he liked the taste, so he kissed her back, and he liked the way her breath hitched when he licked it from her lips, liked knowing that she knew, too, that she would have to know, have to live with knowing. Fuck, sometimes he felt like he knew everything, like nothing in the world could take him by surprise, and sometimes he felt like he knew fuck all, that everything had been for naught, that all his intelligence and plots and plans and knowledge got him was holes dug six feet deep for the people he dared to love, and what was the fucking point? What was the point, he was missing it, grabbing onto it like smoke, and then Mary made a soft, needy noise against his mouth and he was pulled back, jerked back, he remembered. _ Yes. _

She moaned again when he slid up her silver dress, his fingers digging into her thighs, her body slim and taunt like a deer, and it was enough for him to release her from where he was lifting her against the door of the dressing room, which smelled like gin and women’s powdery perfume, step back from her and drag in a breath to tell her to get on her knees for him, and everything felt like a game, a play on a stage, and he would win. He would win. She lowered to the ground slowly, platinum curls and ruined red lipstick and huge dark eyes and he had to close his own and remember the game, the story playing out on the stage, the film on the reel, the way he had chosen to play it, but he was still making up his mind, because he knew he could do it, he could do it, no one and nothing could stop him, and she was undoing the buttons of his pants and he tangled a hand into the tight blonde spirals and asked if she knew about him? And she said _Yes, but only by name _ and he asked if he was what she had been expecting and she smiled a bit like a secret joke and said _N__o, not at all _ and when she took out his cock and buried it in the hot velvet of her throat he let her because he needed to know if she would and of course because he was chasing it, the buzz, the bliss, the nothingness, he just wanted to feel nothing, and because the only person who could ever stop him was himself, and he knew all the shit in his head wasn’t likely going to be sucked out of his cock by an undercover spy, and that was what the knowing did. Won the game. He pulled her back with the hand he had in her hair, not gentle, took away the smooth heat of her mouth and fucking cursed himself for it, asked her _ Who are you working for?_, his voice quiet, his Colt under her chin, because when she had taken out his cock he had taken out his gun, laughing a little at the irony. Her lips, swollen and smeared red, opened in surprise, in confusion, she stuttered, brown eyes flickering in fear, and he wished he could just skip this part, where she pretended, he was tired of pretending, and he wasn’t going to fuck her, even if he wanted to, so she might as well just tell him so that he could gather his brothers and go home. He didn’t say that, because if he had she probably wouldn’t have taken him seriously, and he needed her to take him seriously, didn’t want to have to force her to take him fucking seriously. He could hear the music through the wooden door, her panting breaths, let her stare up at him with the barrel under her trembling chin. She asked him how he had known, and he was grateful. Grateful that she wasn’t trained, wasn’t enlisted into anything, wasn’t stupid enough to get herself shot for it, for whatever half-cocked operation she was involved in. He put his hard cock away, biting his tongue to distract from the friction, the demanding pressure, the tantalizing memory of her mouth, and said, _ You’re wearing your wedding ring. Probably forgot to take it off tonight. Which means whether you take it off or not doesn’t really matter much, which means your husband knows what it is you do. Maybe encourages it, even. Encourages it, but not because you need the money, because no waitress could afford a necklace like that, could be allowed to eat coconut chocolate that’s meant to cost a quid a square, but because your husband knows who owns this club. Probably wants information on us. Wants to use you to get it. Maybe even volunteered you for this job, your friends, told you to keep your ears open. _ He kept the gun pressed under her chin, kept her head tilted up with it. The safety was on, but she didn’t know that. He laughed, but it was more of a scoff. _ Wonder if he told you to do the same with your legs_, he asked her, taunting, a bit, yes, because it was meant to be him dead, with her as the bait for a trap, but- 

_You didn’t know who we were when you came to the table_, Tommy reminded her, and her shimmering eyes widened for a moment at the implications of his words before she seemed to remember the gun at her throat, stopping her from saying anything, some excuse, some lie. _ You approached anyway_, he said, pushing, because he didn’t like that he had been right about what was going on at the club, and he didn’t like when people tried to fucking overthrow him in his own club, his own backyard, this was Birmingham, this was his fucking city. He pushed the barrel harder, into her skin. _ How would he feel, knowing that? _ He asked her, but she just whimpered, said _Please_, and he shook his head. 

_ Who are you working for? _ He asked her, and she was shaking but not crying, not yet, the shock still too strong. 

_ Please. I can’t. He’s my husband, _ she said, her voice unsteady, begging him with her eyes to understand, and he did, but he didn’t much care. 

_ And yet... here we are_, he said, and tilted his head, and she looked at him and he knew she knew, that she would have to know, and he had been right, she had wanted him, wanted more than just information, she had played the game wrong. _ Bad luck, _ Tommy said, _ and a bad choice_. He flipped the safety off. _ I will find out, _ he promised her. _ From you, or from someone else. Now, _ he said, and gripped the curls, she was still on her knees in front of him, _ who's trying to fucking infiltrate my fucking club? _ And then the door behind him burst open, and the music sunk back into the room with it, suddenly loud, the wooden corner slamming into his shoulder, and a shot rang out, and Mary screamed. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's getting pretty obvious that at this point in the story I'm just writing however the fuck I want/in whatever form I want because if you guys have already stuck with me for this long I'm hoping I can't do that much damage by now lmao  
but let me know how the different perspectives are going and how you feel about the narrative styles
> 
> I think that this chapter is probably the hardest to read so far, because of the content/modified mental states and also the italicized dialogue, but I think truly this kind of blurred-out, rapid fire cadence is more honest to Tommy's character than a more straightforward relation of events like what we get from, say, Polly. if this story wasn't so plot-driven I would probably mess around a lot more with this sort of thing but we have Shit To Do so  
Also, although this story is tagged as explicit, up until now I feel like that was mostly to play it safe bc I don't want to like. accidentally mentally damage anyone haha so I have been pulling quite a few punches, especially around Ada's death bc I felt like that was awful enough in itself, and now I am pulling... less? Maybe? lmao 
> 
> SO in that strain, yeah we're fucking pissed at Tommy, because he's an asshole, but god I am so tired of reading fics that water down his dickishness to make him more palatable and then still pretend he's the same that way like fuck, bro, the whole point of his character is that he does irredeemable things for his own, internally justified reasons and that whether we agree with his choices or not, we understand why he made them bc that's COMPELLING CHARACTER MOTIVATION BABEY and sometimes! the reason he makes those choices! is bc he's an asshole! the Tommy from the show is a certified douche but like I said isn't that part of the draw? it is so much more interesting to write about fucked up, complicated, messy characters than to turn him into a pet project where he's like perfect boyfriend material or something bc oof that shit irks me. 
> 
> this isn't to say that I never want him or Tessa to be happy, because I do! I just want it to be real and real shit is usually just balls to the wall insanity. and I think (I hope) it's possible to have both, just takes longer to get there this way. you gotta work through the ~layers~
> 
> this isn't to defend him or anything, or to say that I think what he does, in the show or in my story is like. the "right" thing to do, bc it's obviously... not lmao. but its fiction, so! doesn't mean we all wouldn't slap him across the face irl given half the chance
> 
> that little, absolutely wasted thought Michael has is a reference to Achilles being dipped in the River Styx 
> 
> I adore you!!!!! thank you for reading this story, and continuing to read it, despite all the shit I pull lmao HIGH RISK HIGH REWARD right? here's to hoping you don't hate me (too much) xoxo


	20. Do It All The Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We're taking over the world, one kiss at a time  
And then I'm taking your girl, and I'm making her mine  
No reason why  
I'm only doing anything I want to do  
Because I do it all the time 
> 
> We're taking over the world  
A little victimless crime  
And when I'm taking your innocence  
I'll be corrupting your mind  
No need to cry 
> 
> Now we're so young, but we're probably gonna die  
It's so fun, we're so good at selling lies  
We look so good  
And we never even try  
Get your money from a trust fund  
Do it all the time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> another chapter bc the last one was harsh lmao not that this one is any better

John was buried to the hilt inside a dancer when he heard a gun fire, and he was out of her before he even had a chance to consider it. _ Fucking soldier’s instincts, _ he thought, yanking his trousers back up and barreling from the room. _ Fucking family, _ he cursed inwardly, _ what better ways to ruin a bloody good time, _but it was mostly to cover up the bubbling fear, like acid in the pit of his stomach. It could be someone else, he knew that. A bar fight gone wrong, some overly cocky cunt with a loaded weapon in his pocket. But John was a bookmaker, a gambler, and he knew the odds, and it was fifty to one that the shot had something to do with Tommy, or Arthur, so he left the dancer in the loo and unlocked and opened the door and followed the noise from where it had rung out, down the hall, past an open door, he stumbled right for it, and he had placed the right bet. He could see the scene inside the room, like silhouettes in an opera, Tommy with his gun against the head of the waitress, looking terrifyingly sure, impossibly calm, bored, even, his eyebrows raised slightly as he regarded one of the men aiming another weapon at him in a stalemate. His shirt was untucked, the waitress’ bright lipstick smeared down his neck, vivid against his white collar, his jacket on the floor. There were two companions with the man, their backs to the door, all with weapons drawn, and Tommy was outnumbered, but the girl was on her knees in front of him, a hostage the other men apparently deemed important enough to deserve at least a few moments of hesitation, dark metal against her bright hair. Tommy saw John in the hallway, hovering in the shadows, and shook his head so very slightly that John almost didn’t see it, his face halfway in the darkness from the overturned lamp, like hell was creeping up from his feet to claim him. 

“Mr. Thomas Shelby. Victoria,” one of the men said, nodding at Tommy and then the woman on the floor, and Tommy snorted, and John assumed it was over the rough Irish burr of the man’s voice, that told them his affiliation, he shouldn’t have fucking spoken, should have been smart and stayed silent, but Tommy just glanced down, said, 

“Victoria, eh? Yeah, you didn’t look much like a Mary.” The blonde woman’s lip trembled, but the press of the Colt against her temple was completely steady. “Murphy, is it?” He asked, looking back at the center man. 

“You’ve heard about me?” the man said, gruffly. 

“By name only. Seems like a running theme tonight,” Tommy replied, still impassive, adjusting his grip on Victoria, enough for her to wince and her expensive, ostentatious jewelry to tinkle very slightly. Her giveaway, John thought, and then he had to repress a sigh because of course Tommy had to get his cock sucked by the wrong girl, he should have fucking realized. Tommy had. He had already known about, or suspected, her questionable loyalties, probably ever since he had asked Arthur whether club employed whores. 

“Then how’s abouts you keep it out your fucking tinker mouth,” the Irishman spat, flicking the tip of his gun at Tommy, whose eyes glittered with frozen amusement. 

“Be more concerned about keeping things out of her mouth, if I were you, mate,” Tommy said, and John heard footsteps and a punch land, but the Irishmen’s movement had cast him temporarily out of John’s field of vision, lurking in the hallway, which meant Tommy had let it because it instead of shifting and losing his leverage by moving his gun from the girl’s head, and then Arthur was coming down the hall, his lumbering gate rather unsteady, eyes wide, buttoning his shirt unevenly in his haste. John lifted a finger to his lips and jerked his head inside the room where Tommy stood, the warm lamplight light streaming through past the open door and spilling into the dark hall. _ Tommy’s pissed someone off again, _he said to Arthur, with his eyes, and Arthur already knew. 

“Let go of her,” the man said, commanded, and Arthur was quietly checking the clip in his gun, his sharp features half obscured. John’s finger was tapping on the trigger, watching Tommy, waiting for the order, and his brother wiped blood from his split lip, recovering from the hit, Murphy’s form dwarfing his, but-, “Get your hands off of what doesn’t belong to you, pikey, or-” The Irishman began, and Tommy interrupted, asked,

“Why is it you’re here?”, speaking loudly, clearly, bold. 

“What, to walk in on me wife an’ another fucking man-,” 

“No. That’s not what I meant,” Tommy said, sharply, and he might have even lifted his finger in reproach, John wouldn’t put it past him, even with three pistols leveled at his skull. “Why are you in my club?”

John could only see the back of the man’s head so he was not privy to his expression, his hair a generic shade of brown but neatly styled, his dark suit expensive, his shoes shiny, but he thought by his voice he was probably smiling patronizingly. _ A face for sure. Not some upstart, doesn’t know what he’s gotten himself into. Big-shot, then, _ John thought. _ IRA, cavalry, by the way he stands. Early 40’s, semi-auto .45 Ballister. A copycat gun. “For guns and engines, always buy American,” Tommy had said. _John’s Colt felt heavy and powerful in his hand, his blood thrumming, and it was brand new, he hadn’t even fired it anywhere past the range, and a dark part of him itched to try it out, and another, smaller part got sick off the idea, and the sides fought like they always did, but he was standing in the dark, holding the gleaming, beautiful gun, so the darker part won and his heart pounded in his ears. 

“Got a tip-off. Somebody said the king had left his castle.”

“Tip-off from who?” Tommy asked. 

"Don’t think you’re quite in the proper position to be the one asking questions at the moment, Mr. Shelby,” Murphy replied, and Tommy made a face that managed to be somehow both ambivalent and challenging, like he was up for the competition but didn’t much care to waste his time waiting for it to run its course. 

“Come on out, then, boys,” he called, and fuck, it felt like France, another takeover, another military coup, felt like they had planned it, like it was rehersed, and John and Arthur stepped into the room in the same moment, silent, guns aimed and loaded, pointing at the heads of the two men flanking Murphy, and Tommy turned his gun from Victoria to mirror the weapon pointed between his eyes. 

“Now we’re all dead,” Tommy said, quietly, his gaze locked on Murphy. “So. Why don’t we ghosts have a conversation?” The waitress at his feet was gasping quietly, her breaths sharp, but her dire situation seemed to have little impact on her husband. Murphy didn’t respond, just adjusted his grip slightly, did not lower his pistol. 

“What do the Irish want with my club?” Tommy asked, and Murphy scoffed.

“We don’t need your _ club_,” he said, mockingly, like he couldn’t believe his enemy was capable of thinking in such limiting terms. “We need information. You’ve been pulling out of deals, cutting off supply lines. We needed to investigate, find out what caused yer sudden change of ‘eart.” He paused, his accent thick and heavy. “You see, we need to know if you’re planning to betray us. So that we can kill fucking you first,” he said, and John noticed the broken glass on the ground, probably from the shot he had heard, the mirror that had been above one of the large vanities shattered to pieces on the floor, reflective and glinting, throwing back flashing images, dull silver of aimed guns like heaven had witnessed the events and fallen down in shame. 

“No one needs to kill anyone else,” Tommy said, evenly, which made John want to smile, morbidly, because that was what Tommy usually said right before he killed someone. The waitress, Victoria, had tears running down her cheeks, that shimmered like the glass on the floor, and it was hard for John to look at her, and to remember that she had been helping set his brother up to be murdered, and what the fuck was Tommy doing, fucking about with the Irish, anyway? And then Tommy’s headlight eyes flicked to John’s, locked, just for a moment, then slid to Arthur’s, and in that second, John knew, even before Tommy spoke, before he gave the command, said,

“_Trage_,” and slapped a hand over the waitress’ eyes, and triggers pulled, _ BANGBANG BANG, _

even as the tension climaxed and snapped like a bent twig, even as bodies toppled, instantly, like pebbles dropped from the hands of God, 

He had known what Tommy was going to say before he had even spoken, knew he was going to _ speak _ even before he had spoken, as had Arthur, which is why, when the ringing from the shots faded into the air, there were three Irish crumpled at their feet, and Arthur was already moving in on the one still breathing, one of the two men flanking Murphy, who for his part had pitched foreward, his neck twisted oddly where he had landed so that John could see the dark hole of Tommy’s perfect shot right between his eyes. The man who had still been breathing was two swings of Arthur’s fist from drawing his last, even though Arthur had only hit him in the leg, perhaps for this excuse. Tommy watched blankly, his chest rising and falling rapidly but otherwise entirely still, his face empty, watched and made no attempt to move, and John lunged foreward and yanked Arthur off the fallen man, whose face was just red mush now, and dragged him back with all his might, turned to gesture to Tommy with the arm not restraining his brother, said, 

“Fucking help me, then, will you?” over Arthur’s roar of rage, and didn’t realize they had slipped back into Rocca, until Tommy said, 

“Let him go, John. Arthur, get it done, and get it done quickly, there’s people coming,” and John realized they had done it unintentionally, reflexively, after hearing Tommy give the order, like they used to in France, to keep the enemy disconcerted. Arthur fired another shot, his lips pulled back in a blood-spattered snarl, and Tommy’s hand was still pressed against the eyes of the waitress, who was shuddering with silent wails, her hands pressed against her mouth, open in horror, and John watched his brother’s face as his other brother’s shot reverberated against decimated flesh, and Tommy met his eyes just as the last _ BANG _sounded, and John wished either of them had flinched. Faces appeared in the doorway behind them, white and terrified, the club’s security shocked to actually experience what they were hired for, a particularly beefy man shouldering his way hesitantly into the room, but Tommy leveled his Colt at him and pulled the trigger with the same motion, cracking a shot into the plaster of the wall right above his head, causing a spray of white dust to snake down through the silent air, the men in the door frozen in fear, until Tommy said, 

“Go. Get out. Get everyone out.” Jerking his head towards the exit, still pointing his gun at the man’s chest. 

And the bulging man took a sweeping, nauseous glance at the bodies littering the floor like discarded dolls, then at Tommy, and his empty face, then glanced at his companions, turned around, and hastily retreated, their footsteps echoing down the hall, and if John could hear footsteps, he realized the band must have stopped playing, the music ceased. A bright red line was trickling down Tommy’s bottom lip, and he wiped it with the back of the hand holding his gun, and Arthur’s face had been scratched deeply across one cheek by the beaten man during his desperate thrashing, and John kept feeling the recoil of his shot jump through his arm like it was happening over and over again, the fleeting, all consuming power ebbing and flowing like a wave over him. Arthur was bouncing on the balls of his feet, and John understood, but his limbs were buzzing too intensely for him to have enough control of them to emulate him. Tommy sighed, and John couldn’t decide if he sounded more like a man condemned to death or one who had encountered a poor business deal, his hand still pressed to the waitress’ eyes. 

“Get her out of here,” he said, to John, who thought about offering her his hand, but who thought it would likely just terrify her more if he attempted to touch her after contributing to the murder of her husband. “Don’t let her see this shit,” Tommy muttered, as John approached, and he nodded, kept her head tucked against his chest as they left the room. He could feel her shoulders shaking against him. 

“What you want us to do with the bodies, Tom?” he heard Arthur ask, behind him, and he and Tommy both knew there were more questions, that there would be more questions, later, but this was the only one that mattered, for now. John felt like he was moving incredibly slowly, like he had left himself behind, in the room with his brothers. He could hear the noises behind him. A stopper being pulled. A match being struck. 

“They died in a fire,” Tommy said, “Like Johnny. Like Ada’s car crashed of its own accord.” And John heard the sharp snap of his footsteps as they left the room and grew closer, and he turned to continue down the hall, Tommy close behind. 

  
  


Arthur’s face swam in Michael’s vision, as he lifted his face from the surface of the table, _ Come on, young boss, we’re gettin’ outta here, we’re leaving, _he was saying, but his words were taking ages to work their way into Michael’s ears, through his brian, 

“Where are the others?” he asked, his words smushed like his face against Arthur’s shoulder, as he was dragged upwards, and his neck smelled like blood, and it registered in a dim, distant portion of Michael’s consciousness that was still capable of recognizing danger, and then he turned his head woozily, and John was smashing bottles against the floor, chucking them so hard they shattered, his face frozen in a wild grin, sending shards of green and brown and translucent crystal through the air and across the ground, crunching under his shoes, their liquid spilling into pools over the marble. 

“They’re here,” Arthur said, gruffly reassuring, “we’re all here. Some cunts tried to get the best ‘o Tom, in ‘is own club, but we fucking got ‘em, yeah, we fucking did, Tommy always did know how to pick the wrong girl,” and his words tumbled over one another until they held no meaning. 

“Where’s Tommy,” Michael mumbled, and Arthur adjusted his grip, his fingers gripping onto Michael’s arm, and Arthur said, 

“Right there, he’s right there, Mikey, no need to worry, just got some things to take care of first, before we’s set to leave,” the cadence began again, and maybe some buried part of Michael remembered the days before he was taken, when he was nothing but a child and Arthur and him would hide under the stairs when the coppers came through, landlords demanding rent that couldn’t be paid, and Arthur would calm him down with the low roll of his tone. And then Tommy was there, hand in his pocket, smoking a cigarette, and pacing across the broken glass on the dancefloor with every inch of his usual unconcerned swagger, like he was Jesus walking on palm fronds instead, and everyone was gone, the club was deserted, the musicians had knocked over their instruments in their haste to escape, and _ What happened _Michael asked, but Arthur didn’t respond that time, or perhaps he had not spoken. John whooped as a full bottle burst against the wall, slipped from his hand. 

“That’s enough, John Boy, come on. The fire’s spreading, the coppers are coming,” Tommy said, but Michael doubted John could even hear him over the peal of his own laughter. 

“Toss one, Tommy, go on,” John said, and Tommy likely rolled his eyes, but Michael’s felt like they were rolling back in his head, and the room spun out of focus for a moment, and in the corner of his vision, something orange glowed down a hallway, 

“Fucking go on, Tommy, let’s see what you’ve got,” his cousin’s conjoling tone was followed by another shattering noise as he popped a bottle like a balloon at his feet, and Michael’s eyes refocused and the world stopped for one moment, John pressing a bottle into Tommy’s hand, gesturing out across the floor to the stages, where the entertainment had been, his words drowned in the rushing in Michael’s ears, and Tommy considered him for a moment, frozen eyes frozen still, then shook his head, as if in defeat, took the bottle, pulled the stopper, tipped it up to his lips, tilted his head back, Michael could see his throat move when he swallowed, upended it onto the floor, the whiskey flowing out in an amber stream like the jewels around the waitress’ slim neck, and Tommy took out his gun, tossed the bottle, shot it out of the air. The shards popped like a firework, silent against the splitting, resounding sound of the gun, John’s yells as he slapped the surface of a table in encouragement, hysterical laughter, Arthur scoffing in Michael’s ear at his brother’s antics as if he held himself above them somehow, as if Michael’s form clinging to his shoulder wasn’t the only thing stopping him joining in, Tommy’s teeth bared in a roar as he flung a bottle so high it hit the balcony above the right stage and burst, showering them all in fizzing champagne, the flashing of shattered glass and reflective mirrors and shimmering gold smudging and blurring with the little flame of Tommy’s lighter, the fire catching in his blue, blue eyes as it fell to the floor. 

  
  
  


When Michael faded back in, he was in the back seat of Tommy’s Bugatti, his cheek to the leather of the back seat, half sprawled over John, whose eyes were closed, but his face looked tight, and Arthur and Tommy were in the front, and Tommy was driving, lightpoles passing and flashing across the unforgiving angles of his face. It was quiet but for the engine, the tyres beneath them. 

“I know it fucking shouldn’t, mate,” Arthur said, his voice low, only to Tommy, whose eyes did not waver from where they were locked on the dark road. “But it feels fucking better, bruva. It does, a little bit.” Tommy’s jaw clenched. “Just for now. I know I shouldn’t say it, I know I shouldn’t,” and Michael could see Arthur shaking his head, and Tommy didn’t turn, took a long pause before he spoke. 

“Then don’t,” was all he said, giving nothing, but Michael had seen it, and it was superimposed, now, it was too late. He knew, and Arthur did, too. 

“Take care of the girl. Victoria,” Tommy said, after another period of time that Michael couldn’t quite judge. 

“Alright, Tom,” Arthur said, instead of arguing, and Michael didn’t know who the fuck they were talking about. He slipped back out. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GUESS WHAT. THIS STORY IS NEVER EVER GOING TO END lmao its looking like there will be a part four (jesus christ)  



	21. What Kind Of Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You're a holy fool, all colored blue, red feet upon the floor   
You do such damage, how do you manage   
to have me crawling back for more   
"oh, mercy", I implore 
> 
> And with one kiss   
You inspired a fire of devotion that lasts for twenty years   
What kind of man, loves like this?

“What. Have you done. To my  _ son,”  _ Polly hissed, cornering Tommy the moment he walked through the doors behind Arthur and John, who had Michael heaved like a sack of coal between them. 

“He’s alright, Polly, he’s fine, he’s had too much to drink-,” Tommy began, but Polly shoved past him, knocking into him hard enough to slam his shoulder back, inspecting Michael’s face anxiously. The boy was a bit sweaty, might have a touch of whiskey sickness, but he would be fine. It was better, really. It was better.

“You’re bleeding,” Polly snapped. “What fucking happened?” It was the tone she had used on them when she found out someone was responsible for a blinding, a robbery, and then farther back, to the neighbor boy’s black eye, the missing money from the church’s collection tin. Her glossy dark eyes were fixed on Tommy, and she could always tell when he was lying. So he sighed, clicked his tongue. 

“Some men, they set up an intelligence operation in  _ Aura _ . We dealt with it. Michael wasn’t involved.” 

“What men? How?” she asked, and Tommy pinched between his eyes, pain flickering behind them like electric eels in a pool, crackling. 

“IRA,” he bit out, and Polly sucked in a breath, clapped a hand over her mouth, and he thought of Victoria, hand pressed over her silent scream after the sound of the bullets firing, the bodies falling. He kept his tone eve, his words precise. “They were using the staff to collect information regarding the Peaky Blinders and our new political alliances,” he continued, and the breath choked in Polly’s throat, came out as a gasp. Her eyes moved across his face, probably frantic for an inkling that he was fibbing, playing some kind of joke. She should have known better than to hope. 

“What _ new political alliances,”  _ She ground out between clenched teeth, and Tommy pressed his fingers harder against the bridge of his nose, seeking temporary relief that he was not given, before looking her dead on. She wanted to know so fucking badly, so be it. 

“I asked Winston Churchill for a favor, and I had to agree to certain terms in order for it to be granted,” he continued, evenly, over John’s immediate reproach of “What bloody favor?”, over Arthur’s groan of anger and disbelief. 

“The fucking fighter plane,” Polly said, having already suspected, or already figured it out. Unsurprising, in either case. “For the Perish, For your dangerous, secretive plan that you’ve only told half of those involved half of!” 

“The details of which  _ cannot  _ be exposed, Polly, I told you that I won’t fucking risk it-,” Tommy responded, keeping his voice low, overpowered by her answering chastizement and the added din of his brother’s complaints-

“So when you say you “took care of it” do you mean you  _ killed IRA-,” _

“Hang on, Tom, what the  _ fuck  _ did you promise Winston Churchill in-,” 

“Can’t even trust his own bruvas to fucking keep quiet, the fuck’s he playing at-,” 

“What’s… going on?” Another voice cut through the overlapping cacophony of his various family members, all with their eyes sharp and their teeth bared, nearly at his throat, Polly in his face and Arthur moving forward like he might grab him, and there was his accidental savior, small and made smaller without her heels, hair down and flowing around her shoulders, in her pale dressing gown, and Tommy was reminded of a dream of her in a field, wearing a white dress, becoming seeped in red. He had had the dream again, recently. She did not look well, even outside of the nightmare, her eyes and nose rimmed in red and shadowed in blue, her cheeks pale. Everything was to be visceral tonight, it would seem, the way it gutted him like a deer, shot and strung. 

“Yeah, Tom,” Arthur said, waving his hands at him in an open gesture, an invitation. “Yeah. What’s fucking going on, eh? Why don’t you fucking tell ‘er about this fucking buisness of yours-,” 

“She knows.” He kept his gaze on her, ignored Arthur’s wild eyes, Polly’s glare, John’s glower. After he spoke, all the other eyes of the room turned to her, as well. 

“She does, hmm?” John muttered, rolling a toothpick plucked from the burning club between his lips with his fingers. Tessa’s fluttering eyes flickered between their faces under their scrutiny, and Tommy wondered briefly, uncharacteristically, what each of them saw when they looked at her. A fit bird, a sister, a daughter, a friend? He looked at her, too, and felt that violent, possessive lurch, some animalistic instinct, to own, to have. It beat like a heart, in his mind, a mantra.  _ Mine. Mine. Mine. Mine. Mine.  _ She blinked, looking innocent and beautiful, but then her nose started to bleed, running ruby red. 

_ “Fuck,” _ she said, so sharp, so American, reaching to touch her nose and glancing down at the evidence on the back of her pale fingers. 

“Well, Tessa,” Polly said, her tone drier than champagne, but that was how Tommy knew that underneath, there was a hidden smile, as sardonic as her words, and under that was a hard strain of genuity. Like gold buried in the mines. “Welcome to the family.” 

  
  


His lip was split, and that was what she noticed first, because of course it was, because she had been searching for any signs of harm. There was red smattered down his white shirt, and her eyes followed the trial. Then she noticed that his collar had been popped open, remained unbuttoned, and that led her eyes to the scarlet streak on his neck, and that, well. Then everything else went scarlet too. 

“Coming home with another woman’s lipstick on your skin is a bit cliche, no?” she snapped, before she had considered their current setting whatsoever, over the voices of his family, possibly, they were still gathered all together in the foyer like they were expecting someone else to appear, like Ada would walk through the front doors at any moment, but Tessa couldn’t hear them, suddenly, over the rushing in her ears. Tommy’s eyes slid to her, illuminated like shattered crystal by the cool light of the overhead chandelier. 

“Could be blood,” he said, with the faintest jerk of his chin in a shadow of a shrug. Tessa sucked in a breath through her teeth and it tasted like the blood, her blood, dripping down her throat. 

“Jesus fucking Christ,” she half-whispered, more appalled at his flippancy than she should have been, perhaps, looking at him as he just watched her, feeling like maybe she didn’t know him, maybe she didn’t want to. “Have you  _ no  _ shame? _ ” _ she hissed, and electric eyes fell to the floor like two dropped marbles before he could pick them back up again, the closest she had ever seen him come to flinching, and nothing at all, he lifted them back up to her face unhurriedly, and no, there was no shame there, just a cold, frozen blue. 

“Time to go,” Arthur muttered under his breath to John, who nodded a bit frantically and hobbled away, Michael’s mostly prone form still propped between them. Tessa found their reaction momentarily, bizarrely amusing, and she had to hold back a twisted smile, and then she looked back to Tommy, who was still  _ looking  _ at her with something flickering across his face that she didn’t think she liked. Or maybe nothing was flickering across his face at all, and that was what she hated. Polly shot him one last glare, whispered, “We will discuss this in greater detail at a later time, Thomas,” in a furiously quiet voice, her hands balled into fists, before stalking from the room behind Arthur, and John, and her semi-conscious son. Tommy just cleared his throat and watched her go, unresponsive. He took his cigarettes out of his coat pocket, his movements deft and unconcerned. Tessa’s nose had stopped bleeding, which she was distantly thankful for, but everything still felt shaky and fragile and uneven, her world balanced on a house of cards that could topple with the slightest breath. Her chest kept rising and falling, rising and falling, quicker than she was telling it to. His gaze travelled out past her, like he was thinking about something, like none of what was occuring held any sort of consequence for him. 

“You’re burying yourself, Tommy,” she said said, quietly, her voice wavering slightly with things she wasn’t keen to identify. He flicked his lighter, flipped it closed. 

“I’ve been buried,” was all he said, the orange embers glowing at the end of his cigarette, and she thought about crying, thought about shooting him in the chest, let him see how it felt.  _ I’ve been buried.  _ The words rang in her head like a bell, and she wanted to ask why, where, when, but she already knew, and somehow the knowledge was worse. She wondered if that was how Tommy felt, all the time, burdened with  _ knowing,  _ but she didn’t care. Now, she didn’t care. So she didn’t cry, or shoot him, or tell him to go fuck himself, or scream or curse. She pressed her lips together and nodded very slightly, then turned and left him there, alone with the smoke around him like he was coming out of the fog. 

  
  



	22. Go Fuck Yourself

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fucked and drank all night  
Acted all alright  
Had no need to fight  
Tonight, tonight  
Cast me far away  
Play these little games  
Actin' all okay  
Today, today

“You summoned me, sir?” Tessa’s voice said, sarcastic and irritated, and he could hear in her tone that her arms were crossed without even looking up at her. 

“Er- Miss Reilly is here, Mr. Shelby, as you requested,” Frances’ voice followed, uncertain and much softer than Tessa’s, which Tommy thought probably meant she was standing behind her, or perhaps it was because his head maid was, for once, not the person with the most grievances against him in the house. Tessa scoffed quietly. “Will that be all, sir?” Frances asked, even more placating than usual, against the mocking lilt of Tessa’s tone, as if she could make up for the redhead’s insolence. 

“Yes, that’s all. Thank you, Frances,” he responded, still looking at the papers strewn across his desk, because he had plans to set and a new facet of his business to launch and he had to keep going, had to keep going, there was nothing for him in a stationary life. There wasn’t much for him in this life, either, it would seem, like he wasn’t built for it. Like a military tank being driven down residential streets as if it were a Bentley. Safety, security, hope, love. He wasn’t meant to have those things. It couldn’t happen, and he had spent too long dreaming and wishing for the impossible to the neglect of what he _ was _meant for, what he could do, what he could have. Everything. Everything, but a different mind. So be it. 

He did not hear Tessa’s footsteps, which meant she was still in the doorway, loath to approach him, and he glanced up. Ticked two fingers at her to prompt her. 

“Come here,” he said, distractedly, still preoccupied with his scheme, his backup, they needed it to ensure their position. Leverage was everything. Failsafes were necessary. He heard her sharp exhale, her resentful approach, the creak of the padded leather chair as she sat down in it across from his desk. Her fingers tapped on the armrest, her foot on the floor. How much of the Blinder’s Tokyo was being supplied right into her and Arthur’s veins, he wondered, distantly, and then was caught up in the problem of postage, because he couldn’t just send that shit through the mail, but he couldn’t send it with any of his men, either, because of the fucking Perish-induced quarantine, and she cleared her throat. 

“Well,” she said, “as riveting as this is, if you needed someone to sit and watch you stare at your desk, I’m sure Frances would be more than happy to oblige.”

Tommy had a rather strong suspicion that could easily be arranged, as Frances was likely still standing outside his study door, waiting to hear the inevitable row, waiting to see just what he would let Tessa get away with. When he looked at her, sat in his chair, shapely legs crossed and long hair down and a cold expression on her face, he was rather curious, too, despite himself. 

“I have an updated contract of employment here. For you,” Tommy said, tapping the paper where it sat on the hard surface of his desk. She raised one arched brow, tilted her head, tapped her foot. He wanted to tell her ask her if she could at least try to sit still, but she was wearing a tailored fawn jacket to ward off the house’s chill, and it was buttoned under her crossed arms, and there was the chance that she was armed, so for the sake of his continued existence, he kept quiet, listened to the _ tap tap tap _of her black t-strap heel. It became obvious that she was not going to prompt him to continue, so he did anyway, clearing his throat. “If you sign it, I will agree to let you be present for the Shelby Motorcars opening.” 

The tapping ceased. She looked at him for a moment, brows slightly furrowed, then glanced down at her slim fingers and inspected her flawless nails. “Present but non-participant,” she said, and he shot her a look. “And what’s the caveat?” She asked, quick and monotone, and he sighed, looked over at the bar cart along the wall and thought better of it, bit the bullet. 

“You sign this,” he said, holding up the paper, which she ignored, staring directly at him instead, “you agree that for as long as you’re under the employment of Shelby Company Limited... no more cocaine.” 

He could have predicted her response down to the incredulous parting of her rosy lips. She half scoffed, half laughed, and he glanced up to the cathedral ceiling, gritted his teeth, waited. Years of delegations with Polly had taught him better than to try to dodge a woman’s wrath. 

_ “What?” _she snapped, sharply, and he closed his eyes briefly, pain flashing in his temple like a flare gun. 

“You heard me,” he said, and if she had been a steam kettle instead of a girl, she would have begun to whistle. 

“_Fuck _ off,” she bit out, and he shrugged one shoulder slightly. “You cannot _ possibly-,” _

“I can.” 

“If you fired all the members of your staff who had snow in their pocket at any given time, you wouldn’t be able to man a fucking newspaper stand with your remaining employees,” she told him, and inwardly he had to acknowledge that there was a modicrum of truth behind her words. 

“All non-related members of the board are prohibited from carrying any illicit materials on their person.” 

“Then I’ll wheel it behind myself in a fucking cart,” she said, her retort formed before she had really processed his words, he could tell because her almond eyes widened slightly in confusion when she did. “Members of the… as in board of directors?” 

“Non-executive director. Specifically. To... sweeten the deal.”

She blinked at him, leaned back in her chair, and blinked some more. 

“Have you talked to your family about this?” she asked, dodging, her fingers fluttering against each other. 

“No,” he said, and she smirked cooly, lovely lips twitching. “But they’ll agree.” 

“That’s awfully assumptive of you,” she told him, and she was right, but his assumptions were nearly always right as well, so he was relatively unconcerned. 

“Will you sign?” he asked, and she was silent for a moment, pulling her bottom lip between her teeth, her eyes downcast, fixed absently on a spot on the floor. When her gaze rose to him again, her stare was hard. 

“Is this a _ bribe?” _she snapped, and she looked affronted rather than hurt. “Or some sad excuse for an apology?” and then she seemed to reconsider, seemed to change her mind. “No,” she said, firmly. “Of course not. This is what you do. Whatever you want, and to stop anyone from complaining, you offer some deal to appease the offended, one you actually benefit from. And you get away with it, every time.” She set her chin, worked her jaw. “You can’t tell me what to do.” 

She was right. She was often right, and it was often frustrating for him. Save for perhaps Alfie Solomons, and occasionally Polly, he was able to outmaneuver to the extent that he was rarely held accountable for the repercussions of his own actions, rarely exposed for the ways his scheming benefited him, often to the detriment of others. It was true, or part of the truth, and she was right, but she was blinded by her anger at him to accept that facet and consider the offer objectively. Too ruled by her heart, always, and it was her downfall, just as the opposite was true for him. 

“I can,” he said, again. “If you truly want to witness the… altercation, with the Perish, as badly as you claim to.” 

She looked like she wanted to scream at him, but he watched her actively bite her tongue, a flush of color high on her porcelain cheeks. She ground her teeth for a moment, and he wondered vaguely again whether he was about to have a gun pulled on him in his own house.

“You think love is about control,” she bit out, accusing, and he let his eyes trail over her, up her legs, across her face, touching her with his gaze. 

“Everything is about control,” he told her, and he saw the spark light behind her eyes before she could smother it, even now. Then she sighed, suddenly, like she was tired, like she was exhausted. She stood. He watched her, but she did not approach his desk, instead making her way to the door. 

“Is that a no?” he asked, as she reached for the handle. 

“I’ll think about it,” she said, curtly, yanking on the heavy mahogany. There were voices in the hall, children’s laughter, and he felt alone, suddenly, cut off, from everyone and everything, and he missed Ada. Fuck, he missed Ada. 

“Time for another bump, eh?” he called to her, his tone viciously bored, because if he could still make her angry, it would mean he hadn’t completely lost her, meant he still had power over her. She spun, her mouth open to shout, then seemed unable to even find the words, snapped it shut again, burning like fire, in her eyes, in her hair, as it shimmered in the daylight from the window behind him. 

“I was actually going to see Star, but I’ve just changed my mind,” she spat. “I’m not sure I could stomach seeing another animal only Thomas Shelby holds the reins to at the moment.” 

He twitched his lips in a tiny, mocking smile. “Then you’re in the wrong fucking city, love.” 

She returned his brief, sharp grin, sweet like poison. “Yeah. Don’t I fucking know it,” she said, and slammed the door behind her. 

Michael could hear their raised voices from Tommy’s study. He took a drag of his cigarette, let the smoke burn down his throat, paused to listen. It was quickly becoming the house’s only sort of deviant entertainment, as they all waited for the quickly approaching storm, hearing them have a go at one another. His mother’s footsteps approached, clacking on the polished wood floor, he could tell it was her by their sharp cadence. She was straightening her luxurious fur coat around her, a necessity in Arrow House, the drafts running through the bricks and stone impossible to escape unless one huddled constantly by one of the seven, constantly raging fireplaces, which was often where they congregated, the first places he checked if he was unable to locate one of them. He found himself constantly checking where each of them were, as if they might disappear into thin air if he didn’t. At the very least, listening to Tommy and Tessa rage at each other solved that issue. 

“Karl wants you to play trains with him,” his mother said, after glancing up and noticing him where he was paused at the bannisters, ignoring the raised voices coming from down the hall. 

“They’re going at it again,” Michael said, in response, nodding his chin to gesture. Polly only flicked her eyes to the study for a moment before digging into her deep ermine pockets for her cloves. Michael took out his lighter, and a step foreward, to light her cigarette for her, her scent of frankincense and freesia both sharp and comforting. She ran her free hand quickly over her dark hair, held the other up to her lips for a drag. His father must have been blonde, Michael mused. He had never even seen a picture of him, but Polly had told him that he took much less after her than the faceless man, and it was certainly true that his mother’s coloring was very different than his own. She held her cigarette differently, too, and he wondered how much families shared due to the time they spent together, rather than their biology. He hoped the years he had spent away from them would eventually be forgotten in unconsciously adopted mannerisms, in the slow development of similar characteristics. Tessa’s voice rang out down the echoing halls, bouncing off the ornate mahogany woodwork, higher and sharper than Tommy’s response, low and deep. He could not make out the words, but he hardly needed to. 

“Mm,” was all Polly said, blowing out her smoke in a steady stream of grey, dissipating into the chilly air. 

“Why do they fucking fight all the time?” he asked her, and she was not, technically speaking, the most maternal person in the world, and he knew it. But he also knew she would not judge him for his naivety, even if her own heart had been hardened by the years, by her experiences. She smirked, slightly, around her dark cigarette, her eyes flashing and dark even without makeup. 

“Oh, my sweet,” she said, patting his cheek gently, her hand soft. “You’ll understand once you’ve fallen in love.” 

“What d’you mean?” he said, and he had never felt younger than he did in that moment, young and sheltered and prevented from living the life he should have had, with girls and nights on the town instead of endless foster homes and isolation and pain. 

“Nothing makes you hate someone like loving them,” she said, but her wisdom had a bite to it, a steel backbone of knowledge that could only be acquired through personal suffering. “Now come on. Keep your eye on your cousin. He’s been throwing fits, lately.” 

Michael jerked his eyes back down the hallway under the high wooden arches, heard a door slam. “He’s not the only one,” he muttered, and his mother tossed him an amused glance. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HI angels I'm so sorry about how long this update has taken, if I'm being honest, these next few chapters have been absolutely KICKING MY ASS I don't know why I'm struggling with them so much. writing is harddddd wahhh  
hope you're all doing well, much much much love to you!!
> 
> @befham some Michael bc imma make him grow on you like a lil wart


	23. Deathbeds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eyes like a car crash   
I know I shouldn't look but I can't turn away   
Body like a whiplash   
Salt my wounds but I can't heal the way   
I feel about you 
> 
> I watch you like a hawk   
I watch you like I'm gonna tear you limb from limb   
Will the hunger ever stop?   
Can we simply starve this sin 
> 
> That little kiss you stole, it held my heart and soul   
And like a deer in the headlights, I meet my fate   
Don't try to fight the storm, you'll tumble overboard   
Tides will bring me back to you 
> 
> And on my deathbed   
All I'll see is you  
The life may leave my lungs, but my heart will stay with you

“Tommy,” she said, starting, and she should not have been so surprised to see him, in his own bedroom, it’s just that he was so rarely there, usually in his office, or, more often, not at the house at all. He looked up at her from his spot on the bed, but only raised his eyebrows, silently questioning. “I-I’m sorry, I… wanted to see you.” 

His eyebrows rose another millimeter, unimpressed. “Did you?” he asked, flatly like he didn’t believe her, his accent rough and working-class, despite the spectacular views from the master suite’s windows behind him, the damask drapes pulled back to show the shadows of the house’s drive lengthening under the purpling sky. 

“Yes,” she insisted, stepping further inside. She did. She didn’t. She didn’t know. He was reading, a book open in his lap, legs crossed, golden round glasses on his face. He took them off, and she wondered if he didn’t wear them normally so that there would be nothing impeding the impact of his eyes, of his stare. Like hypnosis. As if anything could. A brick wall could be between him and his prey and still, the pressure of those eyes would seep through, like a gun pointed at your head. She chewed on her lip, then stopped, because her mother would have scolded her for it, and mother’s warnings are hard things to forget. She wished her mother had told her to stay away from drugs, in the form of white powder or gangsters with blue eyes. He stood, and bookmarked whatever he was reading with deft fingers and surgical motions. She watched him move, her head light and woozy. 

“Well. You’re seeing me,” Tommy said, sarcastic and short. He took a few steps nearer to lean a shoulder on the carved trim of the wall connected to the bathroom in the master suite, crossed his arms. He was wearing a holster, even in his bedroom, his M1911 peeking out from under his arm, like he thought the Perish might descend onto the roof at any given moment. 

“What book?” Tessa asked, nodding at the discarded novel. He just looked at her, impenetrable, eyes nearly glowing in their hue. She waited a moment, and he remained silent. “Oh, so we’re not talking tonight, then, is that it?” she prompted, tempted to cross her arms as well, but not wanting him to think she was imitating him, and then was horrendously irritated with herself for even considering that. How fucking childish. She was tired of feeling childish, and couldn’t seem to figure out how to grow up. Her teeth chattered a bit and she locked her jaw together out of habit. 

“Talk, then,” Tommy said, moving his hands in a prompting sweep, then slipping one into his black trouser pocket and pulling out his cigarettes, flicking open the silver case with a soft  _ click _ . She inhaled and it felt like she was the one smoking, like the air was made of ash.

“Arthur said you got your cock sucked by the wrong girl,” Tessa said, and instead of thinking about the words, or how they tasted in her mouth, she focused on how, after years, it still felt strange to swear, so openly. Her father had tried to break her of the habit when she was younger. Both her parents, trying to keep her from all her destructive tendencies. Look where that had gotten them. Where she had gotten them. Maybe her mother wouldn’t have drank quite so much, if she had been more like her brother, a better daughter, a better child- she dug her nails into her palms, let the pain distract and ground her. “To Charlie. I overheard.” She paused for a moment, even though she hardly expected him to respond, and he didn’t, just turned his eyes down to his lighter, igniting it with a practiced flick, inhaling to start the embers. She could hear the second metallic  _ click,  _ his inhale, just barely, across the room. “You don’t want to talk about that?” she asked, and he said, 

“No,” flatly, almost before she had finished speaking, his full lips forming a circle around the world like a smoke ring, cigarette held between his fingers. She sighed, without meaning to, because her chest was heavy, like her ribs were crushing in. He looked back up at her at the sound, but his face was blank, observed her for another moment, then spoke, out of pity or indifference, she couldn’t tell.

“Arthur was right,” he said, badly, flicked ash off his cigarette, looked back at her, hair like night, eyes like the color the daytime sky dreamed of being. Black and blue. He was still wearing his dress slacks, but only a white undershirt on his torso, the sleeves pushed up past his elbows, two buttons undone. And the gun, hung in the black leather holster over his suspenders. Uncollected, for him, and she wondered when it had become strange to her to see him in such a state. His words entered her brain but somehow didn’t sink in, like oil on water. 

“Ah,” she said, just to respond, and nothing could show on her face because there was nothing to show. He blinked at her, the picture of apathy. 

“Is this,” he asked, gesturing between them, trailing smoke from his fingers that twirled off into the air, “how you expected this conversation to go?” 

She scoffed quietly, shook her head. Thought about it. Then admitted, 

“Just about”, blankly, in an unintentional moment of honesty brought on by her useless, empty brain, taking a few steps further into the room and sitting down on the padded bench at the foot of his bed, feeling the velvet under her fingers, the pill short but soft, like the shaved cut of his hair, and the room wasn’t quite spinning but more leaning from side to side, unsteady like a boat in the waves, her head so untethered she wondered if it might float away like a lost balloon. He ticked his head, took a drag, watched her. She pressed on her thumb and fought with her tangled thoughts, tried to straighten them out, a dropped ball of yarn. Her mind was just buzzing static, white noise, a radio without a frequency. He walked over to her, to her very great surprise, sat down, passed her his cigarette. Part of her wished he had kept his distance. His proximity made everything harder, made everything brighter, made her already unsteady mind spin like a top. She accepted the smoke, and her hands were trembling but she gave up trying to suppress it, a futile fight she had no energy for. There were too many hills for her to die on that weren’t made from the bodies of the men who had killed her best friend, and she found them immaterial, suddenly, in comparison. The paper of the cigarette was warm and smooth against her skin, the smoke burnt and rough in her throat. She inhaled fully, held her breath until her lungs protested, let the stream out slowly, felt Tommy, still and silent, beside her. She didn’t know what to say, how to say it, so she didn’t. Couldn’t stop the shakes, couldn’t express her feelings, wasn’t even sure what they were, any longer. So she didn’t, just sat next to him, took another pull and then passed it back, the nicotine crackling through her already electric brain. Tommy took it, inhaled, and she looked at him, the lines of his profile, the slope of his nose and forehead, which was still marred by the cut that had turned a deep, dark red under his darker hair. His full lip was cut, too, the smoke curling over it. Split by something. Rings on knuckles, probably. Someone had already gotten to him. She was far from pitying him for it. What she wanted to feel was anger, wanted to let it drive her, consume her, get her through this madness and out onto the other side of it, wherever and whenever that may be. But she wasn’t sure she believed in another side, anymore. The future felt muted and vague, a promise she knew not to expect to be kept. There were a lot of those, now. He was the only thing that could draw it out, and she knew it, and so she stayed, sitting next to him, his elbows on his knees. 

“Why did you do it?” she asked, and he sighed, took a drag, breathed it out slowly before responding to her, which was more than she thought he would do. His dark lashes looked even longer from the side, delicate, and it was odd that so much danger and so much beauty could reside inside one person, even now, it hit her in the chest to look at him, even while her heart felt like it had been poisoned, somehow, drained of blood and covered in ash and left in a pile of Birmingham coal. He took a breath before speaking, close enough that she could feel his shoulder rise beside her with it. 

“IRA are learning of my deal with Churchill. It was going to fucking happen, and this is just the start. Spies in our clubs, our pubs, probably even Small Heath. Probably already fucking are.” He took another hit, and she reached for the cigarette, and he offered it to her with his blunt fingers, scarred hands. He was careful not to touch her, she noticed, and she didn’t know how she felt about that, either. Perhaps the waitress had been that beautiful. She breathed the smoke into her lungs, to match her new, dark heart. 

“So she was a spy?” 

He nodded, drug a hand down his face, sharp jaw, sharp cheekbones, sharp eyes, sometimes she wanted to cut herself on him until she bled out, and that wasn’t something she was meant to want, not now, not while he was picturing someone else in his mind. The cigarette trembled in her fingers, knocking some of the ash to the floor, the same color as the plush grey carpet, and her veins were dry, somehow, like they held dust instead of blood. 

“Married to an IRA officer. Most likely not by her own choosing.” 

“Mm,” Tessa said, because there was nothing else for her to say to that, and because she was having a hard time focusing on his words. Her bones felt brittle and hollow, her skull tight, her mouth dry. She knew what it was. Tommy looked at her, like he could read her thoughts, like she was just another snitch he saw through. The room was warm and golden, lit by low, expensive lamps, but she was shivering, the shaking moving from her fingers to her hands, taking her over like the sun being pulled slowly from the evening sky outside. She handed him back the nearly-gone cigarette, and he watched her hand with eyes like gemstones, the brightest blue, dancing back up to her face. He looked at her for a moment, observing, then breathed out, short and quiet, and smoke unfurled from his lips with it. 

“Is that it?” he asked, and her shrug was jerky, as she stared down at the spot on the knee of his slacks she had decided was a better bet for her than trying to keep looking at his face, because she couldn’t bring herself to. She wondered if, in the history of the world, two people had ever had more to discuss while having nothing to say to each other at all. He was leaning forward with his elbows resting on his knees where they sat side by side on the ottoman, and he smelled like smoke and mint and expensive aftershave and it rushed through her empty, empty brain until it was the only thing inside. 

“You can go, then,” he said, a clear dismissal, because he didn’t want to be with her right now, and it was fine. It stung like a needle, like a bee, but it was fine. She thought of Ada, saying once that it took much more to hurt her, now. She wished she felt that way because of newfound strength, and not just because she had nothing left to feel, not just because all she had left was a need, a need to stop the shaking. 

“You don’t want me here?” she asked, and he saw through it, of course he did, those crystalized irises were fixed right on her face, maybe she would have been a better liar if she wasn’t so sober, painfully sober, if he was any other man. 

“What are you doing, Tessa?” he asked her, his voice low but warning, cold, and she scoffed before she could stop herself, because she was supposed to be getting back into his good graces, so that he could help her, because Arthur was out, and she pressed on her left thumb. Maybe it would crack again, and then she could feel something. 

“You have the utter balls to ask  _ me  _ that, after you-,”

“We’re done fucking talking about this,” Tommy said, harsher and quicker than she had expected, and her chances of convincing him went out the window with the steel in his tone, and she knew it, so she cut back. 

“You don’t even fucking regret it, do you?” she snapped, with half an incredulous laugh. His face remained blank, closed, sculpted in marble, just cold, pale stone. “You think everything you do is fucking justified because you call yourself a king, you think you can just step on everyone who cares about you, walk all over them in the name of the ‘greater good’ and convince yourself that the ends justify the means-,” he scoffed slightly and rose, like he couldn’t stand being next to her any longer, stood with his back slightly to her like her words would bounce off his shoulders that way, and then the anger flared, deep in her chest, like a grenade whose pin was pulled by his dissmissal, and she was so angry,  _ so  _ angry at him for so many things in that moment she felt like she might explode, from empty to combustible in mere seconds, but in a way it was a relief, too. She was angry at him, at herself, at the whole fucking world, and her mind clicked open like a lock and he was the key and he was the only thing that could make her  _ feel  _ something. She stood too, hands balled into fists. “As if what you gain from the  _ terrible  _ things you do makes you any less of a monster-,” 

She wanted to take it back, once she had said it, but she had said it, and it was too late, and he glanced back, his eyes flashing, and she was suddenly afraid of him, of his austerity, of his rage, directed at her while her head spun like a top, and his eyes were bright and wide with challenge, as he moved closer to her, their eyes locked and their breaths sharp, and she was scared, but when he spoke it was quiet. Deadly, but quiet, like the killing whisper of a knife. 

“Yeah?” he asked, and his eyes narrowed, and for a moment he looked cruelly amused, and he pointed at her briefly, an accusation, “Yeah? You say that to me, after you come to my room, looking for fucking snow like some whore from the street?” she recoiled like he had hit her, her breath hitching in her throat, but, “Deny it, then, eh? Tell me I’m wrong,” he said, “Tell me you just came here because you wanted a fuck, that that’s all you were after. Say it, go on.” And she tried to steel herself, tried to make it convincing, 

“You’re wrong,” she said, but his lips twitched in something like a mocking smile as he stepped closer to her. His eyes were hard, and cold, and he lifted his hand and put it to her throat, and for just a brief second she was terrified, but he pressed his fingers against her pulse in her neck, and their gazes locked like a train coupling as her chest heaved, inhaling through her mouth, her traitorous, telltale heart pounding a erratic rhythm against the pressure of his fingers, and after a few moments, he blew a sharp breath through his nose, clicked his tongue behind plush lips, shook his head. 

“Don’t fucking lie to me,” he said, his voice deep and so low she thought it might have rattled her very bones, and it made something deep within her clench, and she thought  _ not now, Jesus Christ, not now  _ but her impulses always were stronger, always had been, than her logic, and of course he was right, of course she had come for the drugs, but his hand was slightly warm against her neck, and strong, and her fingers snapped out to grab his lowering wrist before he had a chance to drop his hand and turn away. 

“Tommy,” she said, and those eyes fixed on her, vibrantly cold, and she breathed in, stepped closer. She kept her voice even. “I did just want a fuck.” 

He studied her, judged her, but he was always judging everyone, and his hypocritical opinion no longer held any sway over her. She cared nothing for his perspective of her, in that moment, cared only about getting what she wanted from him, and the quiet part of her mind that still clung to hope recoiled in buried shock and shame, a sudden, sharp understanding, that she felt the same as him. That she understood him, that they shared the same darkness, now. She did not look away, let him take her in, shaking and vulnerable and always too exposed for him. 

“You try to tell me that and call me a monster in the same breath?” he said, shaking his head. “‘S a dangerous fucking game, Tessa. Saying shit you don’t mean.” 

“A game you love to play,” she retorted, and it was always a circle, with them, around and around. She paused for a moment, feeling rather like she had been punched in the head. “You’re handing out warnings like we’re enemies.”

His eyes flickered over her, the only part of him that moved. “I don’t fucking know what we are,” he said, shortly, and her lips parted, a bit in surprise at his words, a bit because she was watching his tongue slip over his, as he spoke, a tic that distracted her in the best circumstances, and standing with him, alone in his bedroom, was a far cry. The shock of his single, passing moment of exposure gave her the courage, or maybe the stupidity, to bite out, 

“Do you care?” and his eyes held her and her legs trembled. She smiled, but it felt brittle and cracked on her face. “You mustn’t. You wouldn’t have done it, otherwise.” His eyes were books written in languages she could not read, thousands of pages that contained multitudes, spoke volumes _ ,  _ but his mouth said nothing, for a moment, his tongue tracing the inside of his teeth, and then he asked, 

“Do you?” His tone flat and businesslike, and so was her reply. 

“Not anymore.” 

“Mm,” he said, then repeated, quietly, “not anymore.” He smacked his lips, quietly, reached into his pocket with careless grace and pulled out a little blue glass bottle, half full, and her heart and maybe even hands jumped a bit and he saw it, saw her desperation, but she didn’t care. “Which is the worse sin, Tess, eh?” He played with the bottle in his fingers, rolled it around. She took a step closer and his eyes followed the movement, unflinching. 

“If you’re looking for an apology, you’re not fucking getting one from me,” she said, and held out her hand. He shook his head, looked her up and down, slowly. 

“At least that we can agree on,” he said, quietly, and she rolled her eyes, scoffed, angry, her head was bursting, 

“Just give me the fucking snow.” 

“I want to hear it.” 

“You’re a manipulative bastard.”

He sighed, shortly, blinked at her like she was being naive. 

“Sin is sin, Tessa. It all counts. Even the little ones.” He reached out and pressed the bottle into her hand, small and smooth, the medicine that would take it all away, but kept his grip on it as he spoke, his hand against hers, his flashlight stare locked on her, dizzying her further. His voice was somehow apathetically sincere, like he meant the words, and yet the words no longer meant anything. “You have choices to make. If you’re going to walk down to hell, you do it with your eyes wide fucking open.” 

She scoffed so that she could brush it off, so that she could try to, so that she could pretend to, because the weight of his eyes was pushing or pulling on her, singing to her like the drugs did. She snatched the bottle away so that she could manage a response, because somehow when even his fingers touched her she seemed unable to form coherent thoughts, and she was angry. She wanted to be angry. “Fine,” she agreed, taking her hand back, taking a step back, glaring at him, “I’ll sign your fucking form. Thank you for the lovely ecclesiastical lesson, Thomas. And for the cocaine.” 

  
  


She took her snow, and the shaking stopped, but the hunger didn’t, a hunger like she hadn’t eaten for days, hole inside of her that only seemed to grow no matter what she tossed inside to try to fill it, and she was worried it would engulf her, eventually, become larger and larger until it just swallowed her whole. She went back to his room, fighting herself every step of the way, but unable to stop.  _ Say you just came for a fuck.  _ Her hand paused on the handle, and she inhaled and turned it before she could consider it fully, before she had a chance to remind herself that it was a bad idea, before she could try to dissect  _ why,  _ there was no  _ why,  _ to this, to anything, she could be dead in as little as a week, less than that, she could drop right then, maybe, from all the cocaine. Her heart was thudding as she pushed the door open, and she had forgotten to knock, in her haste, and when she spotted him, standing before the window like he had been staring out of it, his hand was frozen on his holster, his posture soldier-stiff. When he saw it was her, he dropped his hand, slowly, his face blank and composed like it always was.

“So,” he said, after a moment, all arrogance, and it made her smile, that he thought she wouldn’t meet his eyes, that he thought she might blush or lie. That shame would require components of the heart she no longer had. 

“So.” she repeated, tilted her head, walked into the room and shut the door firmly behind her. “Open my eyes.” 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a heads up that the next few chapters will have some BDSM elements, so if that's not your thing, feel free to skip them, I promise I won't mind. tags are updated accordingly. but if that is your thing..... HEYYOOOO


	24. Collider

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two objects collide  
No one will survive

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for Lady_Of_Luck and mliz18, who have been with me from the start, who shower me with love, and who deserve some recognition in return.

He was meticulous in all things. Perfectly straight ties, perfectly balanced checkbooks, perfectly executed commands. He was precise when he took people apart, with his words, deliberate, and she felt much the same under his hands, disassembled like a gun, a weapon stripped down to it’s pieces, a beautiful sort of danger, an instrument, of destruction rather than music. He moved with confidence, surety, a knowledge of his own body that only came from pushing it to its very limits, testing the boundaries of his own abilities. It held people back, not knowing what they were capable of. Tommy knew. He knew exactly, and he moved like it, spoke like it, touched like it, and she wanted to suffocate under the weight of his surety, wanted it for herself. Wanted him to take her hand and lead her to the edge, feel the swooping fear in her stomach, feel the pull to the bottom, feel the sickening urge to jump. She wanted to know, like him, what it was like to live on the precipice, she wanted she wanted she wanted everything she wasn’t meant to, everything she shouldn’t. She felt like something inside her had snapped, like a ship colliding with the shore, a triggered land mine, destruction and devastation and catharsis, and she gave in. He took a few steps closer to her, and she realized his feet were bare, and that she had been holding her breath in her chest like a caged bird. He was calculating her, she could see it behind his eyes, trying to decide if this was a trick, a plot, a ploy, an act of retribution. Revenge wasn’t what she wanted, not from him. She didn’t care any longer, about his sins, even those against her. _ Sin is sin, _he had said, and her heart had been aching since Polly had dropped the phone, since Tommy told her about the fire, since the farmhouse, since she had found her mother on the floor, since she had stood over her brother’s closed casket, she couldn’t remember a time before it had been hurting, and she wanted to hurt in any other way, any different way. And there her bloody savior stood, in front of her, with his considering expression, the silence motionless between them. 

“Why the fuck would you want that?” he asked, simple, straightforward, and this was how it could be. Direct and raw and true, and that was what she craved. Not goodness, or gentleness, or fucking sympathy. She wanted to burn. She stood still, the trembling gone, the tapping and shaking and restless, endless energy channeled towards him, because he could take it, if anyone could. He could see it. She didn’t care. 

“Perdo mihil. I destroy me.” He blinked at her, like he wasn’t sure what to make of her words. “_This _ is my choice,” she said, and he moved closer slowly, a few steps, like he was trying to see her face clearer, trying to dig up the truth in the graves behind her eyes. She smiled, and it didn’t ache to do it, didn’t feel like she had plastered it on her face. It felt free. 

“So what do _ you _ want, Thomas?” she returned, meeting that cold, unbroken stare. “What do you really want?” 

He blinked, once, still and silent, and she was certain, for a moment, that he would not respond, that they would be left in another stalemate, another battle. Then he blinked again, tilted his head. Took a step closer. “Everything,” he said, and she thought, _ finally, _because it was the truth, that they had been dodging, it was the truth, and she could hear it in his voice. “Fucking everything.” 

“So take it,” she told him, her heart kept pounding, so loud and strong she thought he might be able to hear it, in the space between them. He was quiet, and still, but so were ticking bombs. 

“I see,” he said, like he was amused. “And when did this sudden change of heart occur?” he asked, and she wanted to tell him _ since the moment I saw you, _but he was pushing, trying to figure out if she meant it. “Before I got a blowjob from a cocktail waitress, or after?” 

She was still smiling, a bit, and his words couldn’t cut it off. “You want power? You want control? _ Take it.” _He took another step, still unsure, but he didn’t seem concerned. Didn’t balk, didn’t shy away from the look in her eyes, because he had meant it, and they both knew it, and he took what he wanted. Her chest was rising and falling rapidly, like a rabbit in a trap, but she didn’t feel trapped. She felt painfully, viciously alive. There were questions in his sapphire eyes, like she was a particularly engaging conundrum he was trying to solve, and he said again, 

“Why?_” _because they both knew she shouldn’t even want to be in a room with him, shouldn’t even want to speak to him, look at him. 

“Why not?” she asked, and there was something pulsing between them, something darkly honest, the truth spilling out of them like ink. He took another step, and another, unhurried and unafraid, a force of nature that moved at its own place, towards her, and she stood still in the eye of the storm, a hurricane meeting a volcano. When he was close enough to touch, he tipped her chin up with his fingers, warm and calloused under her chin, tilted her face so that he could inspect it. His expression gave nothing away, but his proximity did, his give to her pull. 

“Is this permission?” Tommy asked her, his voice soft, or at least quiet, his hand moving from under her chin to the back of her head, cradling it against his palm, she could feel the restrained strength in his fingers. 

“You’ve never given a fuck about permission,” she said, because she had made it clear, and she would not back down, not unless he told her to. 

“Tessa,” he said, her name a whispered demand, the hand on the back of her skull tensing slightly, his fingers pressing into her hair. 

“I’m yours to command,” she told him, and he caught the tiny flicker of mockery like he caught a handful of her hair in his fist, close to her scalp, not pulling but making it obvious that he could, still analyzing her with his kerosene eyes, two blue gas fires, and fuck but those eyes had caught her the moment they had snapped open in that hospial, she had been in his fist ever since, and she knew it, now, knew it and was done fighting it. She wanted a different kind of fight. _ A different kind of hurt, any other kind_. 

“So go on, then. Command me,” she said, and couldn’t keep it out of her voice, this time, the desperation, she was just a vessel, of genuity and rage and desire, and she felt overrun with it. He leaned down to kiss her before she had processed that he was about to, before she had prepared herself for it, and her lips were momentarily stiff in surprise, forgetting, in a flicker of repressed fear, to respond, certain that his kiss would be harsh and rough, but instead it was restrained. Not cautious, his movements too sure for that, the press of his lips too firm, but controlled, always controlled, and she wanted to punch and scratch and kick at him until his control shattered like a dropped vase, but she didn’t, let him take the lead, let him kiss her slowly, almost chaste, almost gentle, and that, in an odd show of irony, was what seemed to do it. Like the proof of her willing submission was all he needed to believe her, like it had been a test she had passed, and it probably was. Knowing him, it probably was. She felt it ripple through him like a surge through the electric wires that were being strung up all over the world, like the shock of cocaine flooding your system as you came up from a line, and she was opening her mouth for him, strung out on the slick softness of his lips, the tightening of his grip in her hair. He pulled her against him with his other hand, and the movement jostled his gun, she had forgotten about the fucking gun. Who was this woman, that offered herself to gangsters while they were fucking armed, who cared so little of the danger? But it _ was _ the danger, it was the danger that she wanted, and it had been her, all along, her at the mercy of Thomas Shelby, her like everyone else that saw a knife so beautiful they reached out to touch it. Her breaths were fast and quick against his mouth, pressed to him, and she bit down on his bottom lip right where it was split, hard, tasted blood on her tongue. He grunted, pain or surprise or both, but the sound was sweet to her, sweet like the taste, sharp whiskey and rough smoke and his blood in her mouth, and she smiled against him before he parted her lips, his large hand against her jaw, locking it in place, his tongue forcing her mouth open. She let him, let him yank her head back with his fistfull of her hair for a better angle, let him press against her until she was forced to take a step backwards, and then another, like some kind of primal dance, until her back hit the oak vanity behind her so hard that it rattled, the impact rattling through her as well. She was thrumming, throbbing, she felt like a heart that had been ripped from a chest but somehow still beat, echoing the pounding between her legs from the slippery friction of their mouths, spit and blood. He pulled back, stepped back, his chest rising and falling like empires do, she could see the muscles flex across it under his white shirt, could see the two red drops on it, right under the undone buttons. He slid his holster off his shoulders, down his arms, set the gun on the vanity beside her. 

“Kneel,” he told her, and she did, slowly, gazed up at him, hands on her knees, waiting. He looked down at her, like a god observing its worshiper from the heavens, then muttered, “Fucking-,” under his breath, wiped some of the blood from his mouth with the back of his hand. Her head was cloudy and her vision rather glazed, but she caught his expression, and it reminded her suddenly, viciously, of the way she had felt when she had slid a scalpel across a man’s throat, the absolute disbelief that she could hold such a power, power it felt like only a god should possess, the power to take a life, the power to command. She assumed, automatically, that he meant to have her suck him off, to shame and degrade her, rub salt in the new wound, and what better way, after all? He threaded a hand back into her thick hair, his fingers massaging slightly, and even that touch felt so fucking good her eyes fluttered partially closed before his voice drew them open again. 

“You fucking would, eh?” he said, and she could tell that he was keeping the incredulity out of his voice, keeping it even, but the hard press of his cock against his trousers in front of her was damning evidence enough. “If I told you to, you fucking would,” and she was surprised that he would be so taken aback, but it sounded as if perhaps he was just revelling in it, enjoying the view of her, and the thought made her thighs ache where they were pressed together as she sat on her heels. She nodded and swallowed because her mouth was watering, and all the good things in the world wouldn’t feel like this, she knew it, all the chiming church bells on earth couldn’t make her ears ring as they were now, and she wasn’t even thinking about him with some cocktail waitress, some spy, because she didn’t care, she didn’t have to care and she didn’t have to fight a losing battle with his will, she could bend to it, bend and let the feeling flood her, the only thing stronger than the anger and the grief. 

“No,” Tommy said, very quietly, almost to himself, then, “No. Stand,” and she did, meeting his eyes as she did so, deliberate and intentional, because his changed mind was her apology, the only apology she would get. He huffed a breath through his nose, still in amused disbelief, but she could see it weakening, see the darkness in his eyes growing like a black hole, the lust and the power and the lust for power blowing them wide. 

“Turn,” he told her, and he sounded just like he always did when he barked orders, and not the same at all, his voice rough and low and begging to be obeyed, so she did. It was so _ easy. _She saw herself in the vanity mirror, the engraved frame swirling over the huge, reflective surface, with him behind her, half a head taller than she was. She should have felt ashamed, she thought, seeing herself like that, shouldn’t have been able to recognize the girl in the mirror with blood streaked across her chin and tangled hair and wild eyes, but instead she felt like a painting whose layers of dust had been stripped away, a frozen lake cleared of snow, she felt pure in a carnal sort of way. She felt awake. 

“There you are,” Tommy muttered, in her ear, in English so that there could be no doubt she understood, his voice vibrating through his chest into her back, like he had always been able to see it, before she even could, in her mind they were back in a hospital supply closet after they first met and he was waiting for her to say yes to him like he knew her better than anyone in the world, and for a moment she could almost smell the antiseptic, but then it was just Tommy, mint and woody spice and cigarettes and whiskey and horses and blood blood blood in her mouth. His hands splayed out over her hips, thumbs pressing hard on the bones over her nightgown, a dark gray sateen that slipped over her skin and under his hands. He brushed her loose hair to the side so that he could kiss her neck, so soft it almost tickled, sending shivers down her arms and legs, and then a bit more pressure, a slight opening of his warm mouth, a whisper of sharp teeth just above the slope of her shoulder, his body so close and hard and warm and smelling like smoke, and she was breathing so fast through her nose it didn’t feel like she was managing to get any air at all before the next touch of his tongue stole it right out of her lungs again, and she was trying to keep quiet because she was afraid, for some reason, that he would stop if she made a sound, and then he bit down under her ear and it happened anyway, and when he heard it, felt her press back against him, he said, 

“You want-?” 

And she said “_Yes,” _before he could even finish because it didn’t matter how it ended, and he murmured, 

“You’re bleeding,” like he was concerned, and she was, she hadn’t even noticed it, her fucking nose was going again, it had to be the third time that day alone, coppery like metal and money, like the fog that rolled off the Thames. It was only a trickle, really, dripping down to mingle with his blood, already on her lips. _ Red girl, _ he called her, and she was, red blood and red hair and red flame, and she had fucking ingnited, and she would take what she wanted and then burn it to the ground. Tommy swiped the pad of his thumb under her nose, gently, unflinching in the face of her inferno because he held it locked in his hands, in his eyes of ice, the only one she did not have to fear would melt under her true heat.  
“Makes two of us,” she said, or maybe she just thought it and he heard her because he was already inside her head, if not yet inside of her, connected like they were performing a ritual, with a scoff and a tiny smirk, and their eyes met in the mirror, and he slid the nightgown up, his callouses catching on the smooth material, his hands rough like his touch. She gripped the edge of the vanity so hard her knuckles went white, whiter than her pale skin, and he took her chin in the hand that wasn’t pulling her knickers down and forced her face back around, forced her to look at him, the red on his lips startling against the cold colors of his face, so close she thought his dark lashes might brush against her cheek. 

“When you run out-,” he began, low and absolute, his eyes a trap she couldn’t escape, and she shook her head. 

“Tommy, don’t-,” 

“_When you fucking run out,” _he repeated, firmly, no room for question, for debate, no room between them, his fingers sliding down, against her pulse, squeezing until her head was light and soaring, “that’s it. No more. You need your fucking fix, you come to me.” 

And his hand flexed until her airway was choked off, a warning. She couldn’t speak, past the pressure on her throat, so she just nodded, twice, because she didn’t think he would let go until she had, and then he took it away and she gasped through her parted lips because she couldn’t through her bloody nose, in pleasure, for air, and he shrugged off his suspenders behind her, she could hear the shifting of the material. He turned her face again so that he could kiss her, hard, now, and hungry, his teeth clashing against hers past the plush push of his lips, sliding his hands up around her waist so that he could press her against the edge of the wooden countertop, which shook against the wall with the impact, the objects on its surface clinking together, his fingers digging into her. She lifted a hand to pull on the longer top of his hair, her fingers slipping through the feathery down of it, and he dropped his mouth back down to her shoulder, sank his teeth in, until it _ hurt, _ drawing a high noise from her lips as she swiped her tongue across her teeth to lick the blood off them, coating her tongue. He was spreading her legs and lining up before she could pull in another, shaking breath, and it left her as soundwaves with his first, unannounced thrust, too devastating and shocking for her to attempt to muffle it. He watched her as he drove in again, was watching her face in the reflection, and he was beautiful, viciously so, even more so because of it, and she would have thought to see something savage in his expression, perhaps, from the way he was fucking her, but he looked relieved, in the most violent way, like a drowing man coming up for air, his stare locked on her, even now, fearless, ruthless, unafraid, and so was she, even as she felt like she was coming apart against him, pleasure and pain, one and the same. A precariously perched crystal tumbler, empty, of course, empty, slipped off of the vanity and cracked onto the floor with a sharp _ pop, _ and he didn’t so much as glance at it, may not even have heard it, and she finally had to give in, squeeze her eyes closed against the overwhelming sensations, and she understood planets, and stars, and galaxies, suddenly, how they were said to sometimes explode from the outside in. _ Celestial bodies, _and that’s what they were, together, and she pitied God for creating the feelings she had now without ever being able to experience them himself. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I live for women just going absolutely buck fucking wild honestly
> 
> Also, I must say, I have some supremely devoted readers who make my entire life. Thank you, my loves, for all of the insanity that you support me through.


	25. Make It Hurt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The safe word is "Jesus Christ"

There was a distinct, rhythmic pounding coming from Tommy’s room, and John glanced up at the ceiling above them with a delighted smirk, and Esme rolled her eyes at him, stealing one of his rooks from off the chessboard in front of them while he wasn’t looking. Michael ran a hand over his face, and his adoptive mother would have said he was flabbergasted, which just meant fucking confused. 

“I don’t ever want to be in love,” he muttered, and John shot him an amused look, his mouth still quirked to the side, before he caught his wife’s hand sneaking off with another one of his white pawns. 

“Damn fucking right you don’t,” he said, but he was smiling even as Esme lifted her middle finger at him, and Michael couldn’t fucking fathom any of it at all. 

The aftermath was just as violent, more so, both of them panting with heaving chests in the wake of their destruction, in the sudden knowledge of what they’d done. He slipped out of her, grudgingly, he wanted to stay there forever, where the world was hot and blurring and bursting and fucking satisfying like nothing else. She bent over the vanity, collecting herself for a moment, offering him a lovely view of her exposed ass, pale and firm, knickers pulled down to her ankles, dark nightgown hiked up past her hips, but it slipped down again and he damned the slinky material. Her breaths were still coming in sharply, but she stood up, trembling slightly on unsteady legs, but her nose had stopped bleeding at some point, the blood streaked across her lips and cheek like makeup or paint, and he couldn’t tell what was hers and what was his. His lip stung and his arms ached from his grip on her, and she would have the imprint of his fingers on the smooth curves of her waist, her hips, and it was good. It would help her remember. His shirt was sticking to his back with sweat and he pulled it over his head, tossed it behind him somewhere, his head still swimming with the afterglow. She sucked in another shuddering breath and glanced down at the trail of broken glass littering the carpet, afraid to move lest she step on it. 

“Careful,” he told her, and her lips twitched at the irony. “Don’t need any more blood, now, do we.” 

“Speak for yourself,” she said, and he watched her, such a beautiful little thing, smiling at the idea of dancing on broken glass, pupils blown and lips swollen and bright waves tousled around her porcelain shoulders smattered with faint freckles. He crouched down and picked up some of the pieces, avoiding the edges, and she said, “I could call a maid-,” but he waved her off, because the maids didn’t need to know any more about what had just transpired than they undoubtedly already did. The tumbler had broken relatively cleanly, but he did not want to risk a hidden sliver finding its way into her foot. The only thing that was allowed to hurt her was him, as it always had been. He paced to the lavatory and threw the pieces in the bin, paused in the doorway to observe her, keeping his distance like she was a spooked horse, and she was anything but, licking her fingers and wiping away some of the blood under her nose where it had begun to darken. He wanted to pick her up and carry her to the bath, suddenly, clean her off and fix her up, but she did not turn to meet his gaze, running a hand through her hair to attempt to tame it, snagging on the tangles. She considered her reflection in the abused vanity for another moment, too quickly for him to read her expression, then turned and braced her back against it. 

“May I have a cigarette?” she asked, all proper, like a duchess, and he snorted too quietly for her to hear, took them from the pocket of his trousers, sucking his cut lip into his mouth for a moment to ease the sting. He took a couple steps closer while he opened the case, selected one for her, held it out, and she leaned forward to take it, keeping her feet still. He offered the lighter, still moving slowly, but she did not flinch away when he flicked it for her, lighting the cigarette, just inhaled deeply and closed her eyes, let the smoke out in an exhaled sigh. 

“Good?” he asked, as if he needed to, because he wanted to hear her say it, and her eyes fluttered open but she just smiled at bit, not at him but across the room, her eyes unfocused, lost in her own head. He let her float, took out a cig for himself. 

“Sorry, I don’t have any pounds on me at the moment,” she said, after a few beats of silence, and he smirked, which looked like it surprised her, her eyebrows lifting slightly. 

“Call it even,” he said, and she nodded slightly, took another drag and then cleared her throat. 

“Well,” she said, suddenly closed, like a book slammed shut, but he didn’t mind. He had seen her face while has was inside her, and there was no coming back from vulnerability like that, no matter how she tried. “Goodnight, Tommy.” 

“G’night, Tess,” he said, and they both paused, waiting for the other, and then she took a delicate step forward, eyes down cast and hesitant, around the spot on the floor where the glass had fallen, and he turned back to the window so that he didn’t have to watch her leave, but he heard the door close behind her, her perfume still lingering in her wake like a ghost, her cigarette still smoking in the ashtray. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TEENY tiny chapter because I wanted to give you guys something while I plot and plan the insanity to come. also, I made a peaky sideblog on Tumblr and I was thinking of posting previews and such on there. its ways-to-fall if anyone wanted to hit me up  
you guys make my heart fuzzy <3


	26. LOVE IS MADNESS

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I knew the moment I looked into your eyes  
I'd have to swallow all your lies 
> 
> I never said that I would be your lover,  
I never said that I would be your friend  
I never said that I would take no other, be your lover, never said

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you know what fuck it here's another

She could not sleep. For the most part, she had stopped trying. Arrow House sighed in the darkness with the creaking of the wind against the bricks and stone, Tessa’s feet cold on the wooden floors. She went to his room, as if tugged to it on a string, but he was not there, the massive center bed untouched. Something jerked in her chest at the sight, relief or disappointment, she couldn’t differentiate. The snow she had just taken stopped the shakes, but had done nothing except worsen the empty pit inside of her, and she was growing exhausted of it, of not being able to fill it without him, it did nothing but worsen the memory of the sharp taste of his blood in her mouth, the feeling of him inside her. The house was huge in the night, as she passed through it, down the halls with the paintings that grew ever more familiar with each passing day, hunting and horses and landscapes worth more than many people made in a year. His likeness was reflected in some of them, his stare inescapable even without his presence. If any of the occupants stirred as she padded silently past their rooms, the sound did not reach her (slightly ringing) ears. A poem she had been instructed to memorize in her youth floated through her mind again, as it had been, for seemingly no good reason, for several of the past days. 

“Of the night that covers me, black as the pit as pole to pole,” she muttered, trailing her fingers along the grain of wood on the walls, across the almost-soft wallpaper. Then she snorted quietly, at herself, for talking to herself, and then laughing about herself talking to herself. The snow lit her up like a falling comet, up from the inside out, burning through her but burning her out. She sighed, and it bounced off the walls like she was sharing her breath with the house, and she turned a corner down another hall. Bedroom, lavatory, and extra study passed by on her right, two more bedrooms on her left and the second dining room with attached seating area, lavatory and powder room, the stairs down to the cellars, past the maid’s quarters, on her left. She padded down the softer, forest green carpet of the hallway, past the foyer, stopped suddenly. One of the gun safes was open, the door slightly ajar, and she approached cautiously, her steps slow, her breaths hitching. Tommy kept the closets locked, with combinations Tessa didn’t even know. His caches were all over the house, stashed away from the newly arrived crowd of occupants. Benson had pointed them out to her, but she would have suspected anyway, if not known their exact locations. And this one was open. She took a shuddering breath, the fear rushing through her in a sudden, dizzying wave, and then approached, took in the rows and rows of metal, symmetrical and untouched. Reached in and took out a .45, from a line of other options, ACPs, Smith and Wessons, Tommy Guns, gleaming and glinting in the nearly pitch-darkness, the bright moon past the thin, floor-to ceiling windows the only light. She was shocked at how comfortable it felt, even in her trembling hand, heavy and reassuring and dangerous and cold. She took a magazine, already loaded, of course it was, there were four more, already loaded, next to it, _ Jesus Christ, Thomas, _loaded it, closed the safe, breathed out. Braced the gun in her hands, cocked it, flipped off the safety. Every noise she made felt magnified, her blood pounding in her ears. The hallway to the back of the house was empty, but her steps seemed all the louder in it’s echoing space, and she moved across it as quickly as she dared, peeking into rooms as she did, heading slowly to the back, where Benson was stationed, to warn him, and then she saw that the door to the drawing room with the billiards table and piano was pushed open, the one that overlooked the back gardens. Her chest was rising jerkily, loudly, she tried to hold her breath, and she pushed the door farther open with her foot, leveled the gun. 

Tommy was standing inside, before the piano, the massive curtains drawn back from the windows of the room, the moonlight illuminating him, and he was already aiming his Colt at her, posture perfect, deadly still, waiting, and then they saw each other. 

“What the _ fuck _ are you doing?” He spat, in one breath, his face changing as he recognized her, anger flickering across it, after the emptiness, and then the relief, and it felt like forever since she had been able to see anything on his face, anything in his eyes, he dropped the gun pointed at her head, and she copied the motion like her wrist had been snapped. “Fucking wandering around the house in the dead of night, carrying a fucking gun, what the _ fuck _I could have killed you-,”

“What was _ I doing?” _ she asked, incredulous, “what are _ you _doing?” and he looked at her with wide, accusing eyes, silently fuming, and she started to laugh. “I’m sorry,” she said, trying to smother it, “I’m sorry, it’s just so ridiculous,” she managed, pressing her hand to her mouth. 

“This isn’t a fucking joke, Tessa,” Tommy hissed, because clearly, he didn’t find it as funny, both of them creeping around the house at three thirty-six in the morning with loaded weapons like children playing hide and seek. _ It’s a wonder we don’t bump into each other, _she had said to Michael. “Oi! You could be fucking dead-,” Her smile faded, and she sighed, suddenly irritated, revved up from the blood that had been pounding in her veins like a car with it’s engine idling. 

“You want to hear a joke? You left the fucking safe wide open, Thomas,” She interrupted his frigteningly lowered voice with her own, and his eyes narrowed like he didn’t believe her, maybe thought she was lying. “That’s where I got this,” she said, holding up the pistol, as evidence, as proof. “There are children in this house, Tommy,” she said, and he shook his head, “This isn’t like you.” 

He just kept shaking his head, pinching between his eyes with his fingers, still holding his dark, glinting gun in his other hand. “Fuck,” he said, quietly, and she put her weapon on the table by her side, let him hear the heavy sound it made as she set it down and moved closer to him, slowly, even though he was now the one with a loaded weapon and she was unarmed. 

“Tommy,” she said, because it still stirred her, to see him shaken, if only for a moment, and then his composure returned, slipped back on, and she thought perhaps she had imagined it after all. “You _ can _ talk to me, you know.” 

“I don’t want to fucking talk,” he said, finally holstering his weapon, and he met her eyes in the way that settled discussions and stalled arguements. It worked. She was still reeling from the fear and the adrenaline and the snow, and it made her feel electric, like she was rippling with static, and she didn’t question him further, just shrugged and said, “Fine.” His eyes narrowed slightly. 

“You ‘ave been... uncharacteristically compliant, recently,” he observed, with his head cocked slightly, and she lifted her chin to meet his eyes as she approached him, gun and all, in front of the window, standing above the piano bench like he had been about to slide onto it. Tessa took her elbows in her opposite hands, hugged them to herself against the draft of the window, the edges of the panes crisping with frost. She didn’t respond for a moment, just looked out onto the grounds, and realized that he was in the room with the best view of Ada’s tree, in the back of the house, it’s leaves all fallen and it’s branches bare, nothing but a hazy black mass silhouetted against the sparkling, satin sky through the glass. 

“I’m tired of fighting. Do you play?” she asked, nodding at the piano, and he wasn’t looking at her, his eyes fixed out the on the grounds, and she knew why, she knew what on. He scoffed slightly and said, “No,” pulling his cigarettes out of his pocket, and that was when she noticed, belatedly, that he was wearing his long felt and wool coat, even still had his cap on, and how she hadn’t picked up on it before was beyond her. He must have just returned. _ Late nights, Tommy, _she wanted to say. He paused for a moment, like he was considering whether or not he wanted to speak his next words, whether he wanted them out in the world. “My sis-… Ada did. Had this brought here for her.” 

He ticked his hand at the baby grand piano without glancing down at it, eyes glued to the unmoving tree. Tessa slid onto the bench, pattered her fingers against the keys, soft as a butterfly’s wing, too soft to make a sound. They were smooth, and cold, and familiar. 

“Do you?” Tommy asked, lighting his smoke, and it glowed in the window, along with the pale reflection of his face, as she glanced over her shoulder at him, cheekbones high, eye sockets deep, the shape of his skull exposed from the shaved portion of his hair. All shapes and angles, like an impressionist painting. The cut on his lip was healing but the longer one across his forehead would likely scar slightly, a quick, sliced line she could glimpse from under his hair. 

“Yes,” Tessa said, “As any proper young lady should.” He picked up on the tiny, mocking note in her voice, and his huff was nothing more than a breath. “And violin. I can also speak French, and Latin. Some Spanish. I traveled a great deal, when I was young. ” She was reminded, suddenly, of the true difference between their stations, their classes, and it was almost ironic, how little her upbringing in high society had done to save her from herself. Nothing could, it seemed. 

“They say Latin is dead,” Tommy said, glancing down at the cigarette pinched between his fingers, the pale smoke drifting from it gently. 

“Well, if they have to say it, I suppose they’re proving themselves wrong.” Tessa said, and his lip didn’t twitch, but he blinked, and that was all she was going to get, apparently. 

“Play something for me,” Tommy said, nodding at the piano without looking at it, eyes fixed back out into the inky darkness. 

“You like music?” 

“I like watching you,” he said, stare returning to her, unflinchingly direct, as always, and she pressed her lips against each other. She should have, perhaps snapped at him, rebuked him for flattering her, but she just shook her head softly, pressing a key in until the very moment it caught, before it could play it’s note. 

“I shouldn’t. I wouldn’t want to wake anyone.” 

Tommy shrugged, slightly, said, “They’ve been living in me house and drinking me booze for a week. They want to complain, they can fucking do it outside.” 

Tessa snorted, gently. She slid her legs around the bench, away from him, faced the line of keys, sat up straight. He clicked on a floor lamp that cast a dim glow across the floor, and offered her a bit more light, but left the rest of the room cast in shadows. She pressed down and began to play. Tommy was turned to her, now, her audience of one, his hands folded in front of him, one clasped over the other. The first few notes, light and tinkling, made him shake his head in mock disapproval. 

“I think that’s cheating,” he said, over the music. “Any toft could play this with one ‘and.” 

“The first portion,” Tessa agreed, pausing her fingers briefly. Her mother had loved piano, and had insisted on Tessa’s instruction, even being considerate enough to pass on the long, delicate fingers required for it, but Tessa had never fallen quite as hard over it as her mother wished her to. She enjoyed it, to be sure, but a small part of her wondered if she resented being pushed towards it instead of discovering it on her own. Her independent streak allowed for little enjoyment of things she did not regard as entirely and unquestionably her own doing. She continued her story, musing slightly. 

“He wrote it for a student that he had fallen in love with, despite her lack of skill at the subject. He was in the middle of composing a song for her when she rejected him, and so the first stanzas of the piece are meant to be simple, because he meant for her to be able to play it. After she turned him down, he finished the remainder of the song and made it incredibly difficult so that she couldn’t, as revenge. Or, at least,” she said, shrugging slightly, “Thats what my old, German instructor told me, and I wouldn’t have questioned him about anything.” 

Tommy didn’t respond with anything more than a quiet hum and a nod, and she picked back up, stalling slightly as she tried to refind her place, her pace. She let the muscle memory trail her hands over the keys, the notes familiar, their order mechanical. It was the first song she had learned in full, determined, and young, with hours devoted to it’s mastery. She hadn’t played for months, now. She found it rather melancholy, but the music greeted her as an old friend that held no grudges over her absence. Her fingers fluttered over the keys like a hummingbird stopping at flowers. The song ended, and Tommy was looking at her face. 

“What?” she asked, but he just shook his head. 

“You looked sad,” he said, then, after she has already accepted his silence and was looking at the play of silver moonlight over the glossy planes of the piano. She raised her eyebrows slightly and looked down, away from him, at her fingers as they tangled together in her lap. 

“Well,” she said, deflecting. “It’s a sad story.” 

Tommy shrugged like he didn’t really think so. 

“No?” she asked. “Tales of broken hearts don’t stir the sympathies of ice man Thomas Shelby?” The teasing note in her voice made his eyes flicker slightly, the tiniest flash of amusement, and then it was gone and he looked indescribably tired. 

“I’ve heard worse,” he said, with a tic of his head. 

“Tell me one,” Tessa said, leaning back on her hands on the bench underneath her. 

“A sad story?” Tommy asked, and Tessa jerked one shoulder. 

“One of yours,” she said, like she knew there was more than one, more than two, more than she wanted to know. Tommy scratched the cut on his forehead idly, debating, then sighed as if he was giving in. 

“There was a girl. Before France. Her name was Gretta,” he said, his voice even, and she nodded, encouraging his reluctant words. “And she got… sick. Very sick. There was nothing anyone could do. ‘Cept maybe fucking God, and he…” Tommy trailed off again, looking distant and lost and angry. “I watched her die,” he said, flatly, and Tessa was wondering _ who? Gretta, Ada, his mother? How many times can we see death before it takes our lives from us too? _

“What was she like?” Tessa asked, trying to imagine Tommy, a different Tommy, the kind of girl that kind of man would have wanted, would have loved. He pressed his lips together a bit, thinking, remembering. 

“She had a lot of ideas,” he said, his voice like a whisper of a ghost, a breath of the past. “A lot of plans to change things. Revolution. She was an idealist.”

“And were you?” Tessa asked, but he just looked at her, and she couldn’t decide if it was because he was mocking her or because she was on to something. “Do I remind you of her?” She wasn’t sure, when she asked him things, if he would give an answer. She wasn’t always sure she wanted one. A side of his lips twitched. 

“No,” he said, quickly. And then, “You don’t remind me of anyone.” 

“Oh,” she said, rather perplexed. He blinked, watched her. 

“Because I’ve never met someone like you.” He paused to let his words sink in, and her lips parted slightly in surprise. “I told you that, once.” 

“I don’t remember it,” she admitted, incredulous that she could have forgotten. She felt, sometimes, that every word he spoke was burned into her heart like a brand. 

“You were asleep,” Tommy said, softly, his head cocked, looking innocent as day, suddenly, like he wore his danger as a suit of armour and could take it off and put it away in an instant, then right back on again. _ Never met anyone like you. _ He must have met quite a lot of people, in his life. Men in the war, important political figures, boys enlisting into his own army. And of course women. _ Of course, _women. She wondered if the reason he seemed to trust them yet was because they hadn’t fought like the men had. The women’s battle was a different one, played out over skirmishes. A dead brother here. A stranger’s face on a loved one who didn’t come back the same there. 

“Well. You do remind me of someone,” Tessa said, tapping her fingers quietly on the dark wood. 

“Mm. Fischer?” Tommy said, so quickly it took a moment for her to pick up on his sarcasm, and her laugh was slightly belated and seemed to take him by surprise. 

“No,” she said, smiling, and then she remembered, fucking remembered, that that name wasn’t just a joke, now, that it was a curse, and her smile slid from her face like melting paint. Hearing it made her feel like she was being eaten by rats, from the inside, awful and poisonous. She lost her train of thought, her stomach burning like acid, and her glazed eyes were brought back to focus by Tommy’s quiet voice. 

“Tessa?” he asked, and she shook her head, irritated with herself, irritated with him nearly always. 

“I’m fine,” she snapped, before she could stop herself. “And you don’t need to pretend you’d care if I wasn’t.” He blinked at her words, which, for him, was an almost shocking show of remorse. 

“I’m sorry,” he said, very softly, and she almost didn’t catch it, but of course she did, it was only them together in the huge, silent house, them and their breaths between them. There was a beat when his apology lingered in the air like smoke. “Who do I remind you of?” 

She smiled, a little twisted. “Me,” she said, and he exhaled and blinked again, dark lashes and dark circles. Said nothing. 

“Tess,” he said, just as her eyes drifted away. “You didn’t ask,” he told her, and she made a confused face. “With the... waitress.” 

It took her a few seconds to grasp his meaning, and when she did, she snorted. “Fucking Christ, Tommy,” she murmured. “You needed me to? And why should I now?” 

He gave a half shrug and a half smile. “I’m very good at doing what I’m told.”

“No, you’re fucking not,” Tessa said, smartly, but her lips were quirking despite herself. He was still smiling a bit, looking at her, and she could have taken his hatred, his apathy, could have walked away from him if he had given her that. Or she told herself she could have. She couldn’t take his barely-there smiles, full lips quirking, blinking slowly like he did when he was amused. She wanted to look away, but she couldn’t do that, either. Never could. 

“I’m not good at asking for things, anyway,” she told him, and his eyebrows raised slightly. “So I’ll just tell you.” His face was impassive, waiting. “If you ever put your hands on another woman who isn’t me again, I’ll fucking shoot you in your sleep. And it won’t be any hardship,” she continued, deliberately pausing, his mask flickered, “because there are guns all over this fucking house, and someone keeps leaving the safes open.” 

He blinked, again, and she couldn’t see the blue of his eyes through the dark but she watched his lips tug up, brief and fleetingly lovely, and he nodded his chin just barely, then jerked it towards the billiards table. 

“Fancy a game?”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the poem Tessa is reciting is Invictus, and the song they're talking about is Fur Elise.


	27. Looking For Knives

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I went looking for blood  
And they're giving me bone  
And I wanted a map  
I got directions back home
> 
> And I wanted a race  
And I got a parade  
Then they gave me a picture  
Of the mess I'd make
> 
> I was working for dollars  
But they're giving me dimes  
And I wanted a rush  
But they're giving me time
> 
> I went looking for power  
But they're giving me heart  
And I wanted an ending  
But they're giving me start
> 
> I went looking for knives  
And they're giving me blooms  
I went looking for knives  
And I was looking for you

“Pool is a man’s game,” Tessa said, thrown, and his eyes squinted slightly. 

“_Pool?” _he repeated, like he wasn’t sure if she was having a stroke. 

“That’s what they call it in- nevermind,” Tessa said, still rather flustered, although she couldn’t have said why. “I don’t know how.” 

“‘S alright, I’ll teach you,” he said, all smooth and even, and she bit her lip, hesitating. “So you can shoot a gun but not a cue, eh?” he asked, and she rolled her eyes. 

“Fine,” she said, “if you let me teach you a song on the piano.” 

“A whole song?” he asked, weighing the bets, like he always did. 

“An easy one,” she promised, and he clicked his tongue at her. 

“Don’t like ‘easy’,” he said, and she rolled her eyes. 

“How terribly surprising,” she said, and there was a beat of amused silence between them. 

“Alright, fine,” he agreed. “_If _you take something off every time you lose a ball.” She shook her head. 

“Take something off of what?” she asked, and his smug expression answered for her. “_Oh,” _ she said. “Off of _ me,” _and she was thinking about the press of his thumbs against her hipbones when he had her against the vanity, the stretch of him as he slammed in. She fought to keep her face neutral and scoffed, sat up and crossed her arms. “I just told you I don’t even know how to play! And I’m wearing... ,” she hesitated. “Not a lot. Those are terrible odds.”

Her nightgown had been a birthday gift from Polly, whose impeccable taste was one of the benefits of being close to the Shelby family. Tessa usually chose solid colors without patterns, but Polly had selected a smooth black silk shift with a splash of warm florals, under Tessa’s favorite robe. She had kept her stockings on, and was suddenly grateful for it, and not only because her feet were still frozen on the wooden floor despite the added layer of separation between them and the cold. 

Tommy just ticked his head as if it were a shame. “Smart girl like you should know better than to expect good odds from a bookmaker.” 

Tessa shifted slightly. “Same for you, then,” she said, stubbornly, hoping to unnerve him, but he looked as if she had said exactly what he had been meaning for her to. 

“Fine,” he said, and she repeated “Fine,” back to him, like a parrot, standing and turning so he wouldn’t see her smile, wouldn’t somehow be able to notice her heart skipping beats. 

“Go set it up or whatever you do,” she said. She had seen her father play on the pool tables in their house, when he could play, and when they had a house. Pool _ tables, _because there had been two. 

“It’s called breaking,” Tommy said, and then something else about the correct way to align the balls to do so, but he was moving forward and taking his hat off as he did so, which distracted her, so she was not listening and could only respond with a “hmm”. As he passed by her, he did so unnecessarily closely, putting a hand briefly on the small of her back in a pretend maneuver, and his tactics were not helping her inability to focus on the conversation or incapability for speech. He smelled like the cold, and rain, sharp and crisp. He said something else, lining up the balls at the end of the table, and she just nodded, taken by the burr of his voice, and Jesus, she was never going to learn how to fucking play this game. Tommy bent over, eyes focused on the table. 

“Shall I go and turn on another light for you, or something?" Tessa teased, and he pulled back the cue and struck like a snake, and two red balls _ clacked _into the same hole. Tessa’s mouth went a bit dry, frozen around her next heckle. 

“You’re yellow, then,” Tommy said, flickering his fingers at the table, entirely too self-satisfied. 

“That counts as one,” Tessa said, rather grumpy, deciding she would make him try to learn a Chopin Etude and see how he liked it. He lifted a shoulder lazily. She clicked her tongue and untied the robe, shivering before it had even left her shoulders, let it pool around her feet like water. He watched her, intense and impassive all at once, then went to the wall and selected a cue for her.

“Likely be a little long for you, seeing as you’re so short.” 

“I’m not _ that _short,” she mumbled, grudgingly accepting the stick. 

“Mm hmm,” Tommy said, mocking in monotone, and she bit her tongue so that she didn’t stick it out at him, moved to the end of the table and tried to emulate his previous position. 

“You’re holding the cue wrong,” Tommy told her unhelpfully, spinning his own in his hands. She huffed and it made a strand of red flutter over her face, her hair falling onto the soft green felt. She kept accidentally putting her elbow down on it. 

“Please shut up,” she told him, and heard him snort slightly, and she _ was _holding the stupid thing wrong, she could tell, because she sent the cue ball bouncing sideways off of it without even touching any of the others. 

“That’s called a foul,” Tommy said, almost cheerfully, leaning over to sink another red ball into a pocket with perfect precision in one smooth motion, his next move already undoubtedly plotted out. 

“What’s it called when I seperate _ your _ balls from your cue,” Tessa mumbled, but he had heard her, she could tell because of the blink. “Is there _ anything _ you’re rubbish at?” 

A head tilt caught his shaved undercut in the moonlight, glittering off the short hair. 

“Piano,” he said, and she gave a reluctant smile, bending over to unclasp the top of one of her stockings, pulling up her slip as she did so, slowly, exposing inches of creamy thigh before rolling the stocking down and pulling it off her foot, wincing slightly as she set it on the cold ground. Aside from his hat, which he had set on the piano, Tommy was still wearing his overcoat, shoes, and three piece suit. And there she stood, in her underclothes, a thin silk nightgown, and one stocking. She cleared her throat and bent down again, fidgeting her fingers against the wooden cue, trying to adjust them into the right shape. Tommy was suddenly behind her, close enough she could feel his heat, smell his warm scent of teakwood and cigarettes. 

“Cue goes on top,” he said, taking her hand resting on the table and adjusting her grip. She let him, glancing quickly back at his profile. “Use your thumb to hold it.” His touch was gentle, but she still hissed between her teeth, because holding her fingers in that position made them ache with a sharp urgency that snapped through her clouded thoughts. 

“I’m sorry, it’s my-,” she explained, but Tommy had already realized. 

“Nah, ’s alright. There’s another way,” he was saying, expertly maneuvering her fingers into a different position, his hands warm over her cold ones. “Good. Now, line up your shot.” 

She bent down, wiggling slightly against him, which made him suck in a satisfying breath. “Keep your elbow low,” he said, his voice deep, leaning down over her, a presence like his voice, dark and deadly. She complied, drew back the cue, and sunk a yellow, almost entirely on accident. 

“HA!” she said, entirely too loudly, and was shocked to feel the sharp breath from Tommy’s silent laugh on the back of her neck. She straightened, and he was pulling off his heavy coat, the collar still glistening slightly from the frozen air, the red satin lining flashing even in the low light of the stained glass lamp. Her eyes caught on the motion, transfixed, and she yanked her eyes back down to the floor as he paced across the room and back to hang the coat on a hook. 

“Where did you get your coat?” she asked, suddenly, mostly to give her mind a break. He made a slightly surprised face, then said, 

“London. I have a tailor. But I’ll likely bring one of the others for you.” His accent caught on the vowels, rolling over them. 

“One of the other what?” Tessa asked, feeling like they were having two completely different conversations. Tommy was studying the layout of the table, but glanced up at her, like he was couldn’t see how she wasn’t keeping up. 

“Tailors,” he said, as if it were obvious. 

“You have more than one?” she asked, stupefied. 

“Three,” Tommy admitted, gracefully pocketing another ball with two sharp sounds of impact. Tessa sighed and pulled off her other stocking. 

“What do I need a tailor for?” Tessa asked, as she slid it down her leg, the material catching slightly on her goosebumps. 

“For your dress,” Tommy said, reaching into his jacket pocket and pulling out his cigarettes. 

“What the bloody hell are you on about?” 

“The Shelby Motorcars opening. It’s formal wear.” He took one out, which nearly glowed white in the darkness. 

“Ah,” Tessa said, and then smirked. “Your planned takedown must be done in style. Of course.” 

Tommy snorted. “One of my tailors is putting extra pockets in all my men’s suits.” He took out his lighter, flicked it open, flicked the fuse. “Good place to hold things, pockets,” he said, as if relaying a piece of incredible wisdom. 

"Uh huh,” Tessa said, catching his meaning. “Does that mean my dress will include an extra… pocket, as well?” 

Tommy’s eyes flashed a bit, the set of his jaw tightening, cigarette balanced between his lips.

“You’ll be long fucking gone before any of it starts. But yes, you should be armed,” he said, like he resented his own words. Tessa lined up another shot and sunk a little yellow ball, which wobbled precariously for a moment on the edge before dropping into the socket. She grinned victoriously. Tommy paused, regarding her, then took his smoke out of his mouth and ran his tongue over his lip arrogantly, shrugging his jacket off with deliberate motions, switching the hand holding his burning cigarette smoothly. His tie clip and pocketwatch chain and rings glinted as he did, even his sleeve garters were gold, glittering against the crisp white of his shirt. _ Takedown in style, indeed. _He met her gaze with unhurried eyes, caught her stare in his eyes for a moment like a fist around her throat. He leaned over the table again, and Tessa had an idea. She sighed dramatically, stretched her arms over her head, tossed her hair back. 

“What are you doing?” Tommy asked, inhaling without touching the cigarette and breathing the smoke out of his nose, and it had worked too easily. She just smiled and gathered her hair in her hands, watching the way his eyes trailed up her body. “Thats fucking cheating,” he said, chastizing her, but he hit his next shot a bit too hard, and the balls bouncing ineffectivley off the edges. Her smile grew. 

“Smart man like you should know better than to expect me to play fair,” she said, repeating his words back to him and shocking herself by knocking another yellow ball into a hole. Maybe she should pursue a career in billiards. Tommy stared insolently at her, then crouched down and unlaced a single shoe. When Tessa scoffed indignantly, he rolled his eyes slightly and undid the other, kicking them out of the way of his maneuvering around the table, smoke floating around him like a Catholic priest’s incense. When he passed her, he flicked his eyes down to her for a moment, and she shivered, but it could have been from the light, cold air. He sunk another ball. The table was growing less and less dotted in color, like tulips getting their heads popped off. He was actually quite good, and it surprised her less that he would be than it did that he had ever had the opportunity to become so. Pool was a gentleman’s game, after all. 

“Where did you learn to play?” she asked him, a weak attempt at distraction, and he raised his eyebrows meaningfully at her. 

“You forgetting something?” he asked instead of replying, and she took a sharp breath, her fingers clutching at the thin edge of her nightgown over her thighs. 

“It’s _ cold,” _ she complained, fidgeting, but he just tutted and shook his head like it was an awful shame. 

“They’re simple rules, Tess,” he said, and she remembered a day years ago in the home he had grown up in, playing games with his family. She pressed her lips together. 

“Dreadfully ironic to be tutored on the importance of obeying the rules by none other than Tommy Shelby,” she said, which got her a blink. “I’ve never much cared for them, myself.” 

“Unless they’re given by me,” Tommy countered, and she could hardly refute the claim, given the amount of evidence stacked against her. “Take it off.” 

She took a fortifying breath and pulled the nightgown over her head, removing her layer of protection from the chill, from his stare, and if her nipples hadn’t already been hard from the air, they likely would’ve been anyway from the look he was giving her. She was wearing a soft lace brassiere and knickers, and her garter belt, which she was certainly going to count as its own article of clothing. It was hardly the first time he had seen her in her underclothes, but his gaze was heavy like a ten tonne weight, and despite the temperature, she felt heat bloom across her chest. 

“Your move,” Tommy said, and wasn’t it always? He stared at her with unabashed hunger as she bent over, the edge of the table pressing against the blue bruises on her hips, marking where his fingers had been. 

“Please stop,” she snapped at him, because she couldn’t fucking aim when she was thinking about his breaths coming in heavy like a thunderstorm, his hands moving over her body like the crackling clouds over the sky. He looked at her presumptuously, an _ I’m not doing anything _expression. “I can’t focus when you’re staring at me.” 

His violent eyes crackled, light electric blue, and she reflected for a moment that had anyone else taken such a tone with him, they would have immediately regretted it, and would be right to. He shrugged off her chastisement like he did everything else, untouchable, made a show of pinching his quickly disappearing cigarette between his teeth and lacing his fingers behind his back, eyes lifted to the dark ceiling. She eyed the ball, but her gaze flickered back to him before she could so much as line up her shot, and he was looking at her again. 

“_Stop,” _she said, laughing, but he was rounding the table to stand before her, and she straightened to face him. He lifted his two fingers to his lips, taking one of the last drags, inhaling slowly and holding it in his lungs before letting it filter past his teeth, breathing it back up his nose. 

“Not what you’re usually saying,” Tommy said, smoothly, and she smirked at him, which he interpreted as permission to take another step closer, and no, she supposed it wasn’t. 

“I’m very committed to beating you,” Tessa said, and he shook his head, eyes inescapable, but when had she ever wanted to escape? 

“I’ve already won,” he said, quietly, and she wasn’t sure if he meant the game, and his fingers trailed up the exposed skin of her thigh, lingered over the lace at her hips, his touch burning like everything about him did. 

“Interesting show of sportsmanship,” Tessa muttered flippantly. “Do you always play pool like this?” 

He blew a breath out of his nose and it fluttered her hair, stubbed his cigarette out on the edge of the table. She was already surrendering to the pull, just a compass always pointed to the north, always tugged towards him. She turned to face his chest, her eyes level with his chin, looking up at his face, cataloging the scar on his cheek, the long lashes, and before she could stop herself, she heard her own voice tumbling over itself, saying, 

“You are _ so _lovely,” sounding rather punchdrunk, before she bit down on her own tongue sharp enough to send a shock of pain through it. He stopped short, which was about the reaction she would have expected if she had ever let herself consider saying something like that to him, which she hadn’t, because people just didn’t say those kind of things to him. He looked like he wasn’t sure how to respond, which she couldn’t remember ever seeing from him before. He cleared his throat, slightly, and she was ready to gloss over the moment, hoping she wasn’t blushing in embarrassment. 

“Thought I was a monster,” he said, and his gaze broke, dropping to the floor, and she realized with a very odd kind of belated obliviousness that she had hurt him, that he wouldn’t be recycling her harsh words unless they had impacted him. 

“Everything beautiful is monstrous,” she said, and she saw in a brief flash that he agreed with her, despite himself, that if he wanted to argue, he found himself unable. 

“But you don’t care,” he said, more a statement than a question. 

“No,” she said. “I don't. I only see beauty in honesty. And nothing is more honest than chaos. So nothing is… lovelier. To me.” She felt bare, after speaking, in a way that went deeper than her exposed skin. “Hearts and fireworks are only beautiful when they burst.” 

“So is that what you’re looking for, eh? A broken heart?” he asked, and he was asking _ why me. _

“I’ve been breaking my own heart since I was old enough to know I had one,” she said, ruefully, and he was looking at her like he was stripping her soul bare. 

“You should be a writer,” he told her, and she had forgotten she told him about that, ages ago. 

“You would hate my writing, Mr. Machiavelli,” she teased, and he shook his head slightly, his fingers tracing distracting patterns against her hip. Then he met her eyes, with a terrifyingly open expression. 

“I fucking go…,” he began, slowly. “Ages, without... talking. To anyone.” He said the word _ talking, _and she knew, quite clearly, that he meant something more than speech. 

“I know,” she said, quietly, unsure of where he was heading. 

“Used to. Used to talk to Gretta, before the war. But then she died, and when I came back…,” he halted. 

“Yeah,” Tessa said, almost under her breath, and she heard the sadness in her own voice. He had never really come back. 

“And then when I’m with you…,” he continued, like the words were hard to get out, shook his head again. “‘S like confession. It all comes out. All this shit, and it’s….” He trailed off again. “They told us we won. The war. Didn’t fucking feel like it. Felt like we all lost. Lost meself.” His fingers swirled around and around, back and forth. “But you… Fuck. You feel like winning.” 

Her breath left her in a whoosh of air. 

“Maybe you should be the writer,” she said, mostly a whisper, because her lungs wouldn’t inflate. He smiled, small and ironic, and it lit up her heart, like cocaine, like the fireworks. He _ was _lovely, and his smile was even more so, fleeting though it was. She would have told him, suddenly brave in the face of danger, but his hand curled over her hip and the pressure of his fingers increased, and she remembered suddenly that she was standing there in her underwear, that their games were lying forgotten. He took the last step to her, until he was close enough she could have dropped her head onto his chest, could hear his even breaths. She looked up at him, the fading cut across his forehead, the split on his full lower lip, dark hair spilling over his forehead like ink. He leaned down slowly, giving her time to pull away, to step back, and she kept her eyes open long enough to see his close as he moved his face down to hers, the low light throwing the shadow of his lashes against his sculpted cheek. The press of his kiss was soft, and she wanted more the moment his lips touched hers, wanted more and let it show on her face when he pulled back to gauge her reaction. She just smiled, and after a tiny, fragile moment, he smiled back. 

  
  


“Dance with me,” he told her, and she laughed slightly. 

“Right now?” she asked, incredulously, looking incredibly tempting, pink lips and white lace underthings, but he kept his hands from wandering over her soft skin, pale and smooth and lovely, let one rest on the slope of the curve of her waist. He just nodded, and she shrugged. “Alright, I suppose.” 

She let him take her other hand, take the lead. He swayed her slowly, breathing in her scent, like honeysuckle and spring, like the first warm day after a frozen winter. Her hand was cold and small in his, and his fingers flickered against it, tapping out a rhythm, and he realized she was humming along, quietly, smooth and sweet, the same song she had played on the piano. Her chin rested against his shoulder, their bodies pressed closely together and their movements slight, until he stepped back to spin her, holding her hand over her head, and she twirled with a practiced step, teeth glinting as she smiled, bright hair fanning out slightly with the motion. He could see the shape of her ribcage, her graceful collarbones, the slight jut of her hips. He pulled her back into his chest, kept the rhythm, kept her close, listened to the lulling sound of her humming. He had never heard her hum before, much less sing. He did like watching her, it was true. It was like watching a bird taking flight, whenever she moved, the beautiful simplicity of seeing something do exactly what it was created for. He moved them leisurely across the room, neither speaking, around the billiards table and piano, her various, discarded items of clothing. Her gentle hum slowed, and then stopped, with a little sigh, and then they just stood pressed together, and he let go of her delicate hand so that he could wrap his arms around her for a moment, dropping his head against her slim shoulder, her glossy hair tickling him. They didn’t speak, but they didn’t need to. Their hearts were beating the same. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay tbh....... this is not how I meant for this chapter to go but they wanted to be soft and who am I to prevent that? anyway kind of love it. also how PERFECT is this song for them??


	28. Colors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I know I've only felt religion when i've lied with you  
You said you'll never be forgiven till your boys are too
> 
> Everything is blue

Being inside her felt like the first time taking opium, from a whore’s pipe in France. It felt like chasing a wave down the shore and being washed in it’s spray, crashing over and around, as their bodies moved together. She moved like the tide, rising up to meet him, hips rolling, and she responded like the water, a give to his touch until there was so much of her she was holding him up. Her eyes fluttered, lips slightly parted, plush and chapped from where she and he had bitten them. With each slide she moaned, and he could feel the slight clenching of her thighs and the squeeze on his cock, her hair spread behind her on the floor like a spray of blood, like the red waves of the oceans in his dreams. He thrust in, deep, and she said his name, her fingernails slipping down his back. 

“Tommy,” she said, more breath than sound. “Yes- fuck-,” 

Her fingers clenched on his side, hard enough to cut, but he couldn’t feel the pain, could have been shot in the leg at that moment and would likely not have been bothered much by it, aside from it potentially throwing off his rhythm. 

“Just like that- _ fuck,” _ Tessa said, her back arching, her breath panting, her eyes closed. “Tommy-,” and the pressure around him cinched like a vice, like a fist, and he had to clench his own until it hurt not to finish with her, the crescendo of her sounds alone enough to send him right to the edge. She relaxed, slightly, quivering like a plucked string, and he pressed into her again, hard enough to feel her body shift under his, because he wasn’t ready to be away from her, not even the smallest amount, wanted to swim in her and her smell of honeysuckle and apples and the soft press of her skin and her noises in his ear forever. _ She’s got a cunt that makes you want to tell her you love ‘er, _Arthur had said once, about a girl, and Tommy knew what he meant, as he leaned down to press his lips to her neck, tasted the slight salt of her sweat. 

“Another for me, yeah?” he said, and her chest was rising and falling in gasps, and he changed the angle so that he could lift her hips against him with his hands, increasing the friction, her hair so long it was slippery under his hands where they were braced over her head. She moaned and trembled, and he was a god, dripping in gold, the pleasure flooding through him. He slipped inside of her, then out, his heart thudding and fingertips tingling. Her eyes were squeezed shut, biting her lip to muffle her sounds. 

“Don’t do that,” he told her, forcing his hips to move slowly, evenly, “Don’t have any fucking problem making other people listen to you-,” he paused to stifle a moan of his own, “in any other circumstance, eh?” 

“Fuck off,” Tessa gasped, but she keened as he thrust back into her, accelerating his pace, 

“Come on, love, give me another, there’s a girl,” he said, as if she was a horse he was riding and not a girl, and from the way her hips bucked up at his words, she might have been. 

“Fuck, _ fuck,” _she muttered, and then began to tense again, and he let himself spill over into her, drowning in her, the world vanishing into an array of bursting feeling, forcing himself to keep moving through it until he was shaking and she was clenching around his sensitive cock again with a grip that shocked through his core. He felt the tremors move through her and then go lax, and she was sucking in breaths of air like she had been held under. He stayed motionless for a moment, their pants coming in the same. 

“_Shit,” _Tessa mumbled, floating through the afterglow, and he slid out of her slowly and rolled to the side, the wooden floor cold on his slick skin. He reached blindly for his discarded trousers and pulled them back on but didn’t bother with buttoning them. 

“Got a smoke?” Tessa asked, and he smirked because he had already been reaching for his case. He opened it, and pulled out two, reached over to light hers first. She was still lying on her back with her eyes closed, and he put the cigarette between her lips, held it as she inhaled. 

“Thanks,” she said, quietly, smoke curling from her lovely mouth, and he lit his and then told her, 

“There’s no need to thank me for sex,” and she paused in momentary surprise like she always did when he teased her, then laughed, lifted her hand for the cigarette. She took another drag, then said, 

“Well, you beat me at pool. I still need to teach you a song.” 

“Mm,” Tommy said, leaning back onto his elbows. “I just heard my favorite one.” 

She chucked again, her mouth curving into a smile, her cheeks flushed and teeth flashing briefly. 

“You’re bad, Tommy Shelby.”

He rolled to one side and hovered over her, took a pull of his cigarette and let the smoke trickle into his lungs. Her eyes opened, and she turned to look at him, a smile creasing them. He tapped some ash off onto her pale shoulder, and she brushed it off with an exaggerated expression of disappointment, leaving a little grey streak over the smattering of faint freckles. 

“Bad enough to want another round with?” he asked, and she grinned. 

  
  
  


He wasn’t there when she woke up, only hours later, her body still aching. She was worried instantly, before she had even really figured out that it was his absence that was causing her concern. She slipped out from under the warm duvet, grabbed her light robe from the chair she had left it on, and crept out of the room, went looking for him before thinking twice about it. The morning light was waning through the windows, misty and scattered, and he wasn’t in the dining room. The house had barely begun to stir, the maids beginning their breakfast preparations. She ignored them completely, her heart thudding meaninglessly. He always woke early, often left early, it was no cause for anxiety. He wasn’t in the study, but his car was still in the drive, and for some reason, for no real reason at all, she was terrified. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOW HELLO where the FUCK have I been?? well my man was here for a bit, and life is hard always lmao anyways I missed you alllll hope you've been doing well, hope you've been missing T&T as much as I have


	29. Straight Razor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey, Mr. Stargazer  
Give me a straight razor  
Don't let it all phase her  
When minors get so major 
> 
> Cause it don't stop, no, it don't end  
Oh, when the seams start to wear thin  
And I tried to start caring like you and like them when you said that I was killing myself  
Healed everything but my shame 
> 
> Hey Mr. Trailblazer  
Spare me a joint paper?  
It's strange how the days layer  
And weigh on you years later

Ada’s grave was simple, tasteful white marble. In flowing script, it read: _ To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield. Ada Lenora Shelby, 1984-1924. _It was the first time he was seeing it. He would never be able to sell the house, now. Never be able to leave. It was almost a relief, to have the excuse. The letter trembled in his hand, and rustled when he took the brown bottle out of his coat pocket, took two pulls, then another, deeper, until it was gone, the taste lingering on his tongue. He closed his eyes against the shimmering light of the low sun, let the warmth creep through him from the inside, against the early winter chill. Leaves scuttled across the ground, fallen from the trees and crisp from the air, like flurries of small creatures. He had, perhaps, overdone it on the opium. The grave swirled and blurred, growing and brightening in his view, until it was all he could see. In his other fist he held a half-empty bottle, not even a decanter, just an old whisky bottle from the desk. It was the nearest he could find. 

“Tommy,” a voice said, softly, from behind him, somehow fifty meters away and right behind him at all once. 

“Mail came,” he said, rather suddenly, holding up the letter in his hands. She would find out, anyway. There was no hiding it. She took the paper gently, like she was afraid that a sudden movement would startle him. The air was bitter, and he should have been cold, but it wasn’t reaching him. She read silently, turning the two pages, the typing cramped. The list of their sins, after all, was long. When she reached the end of the second page, she looked up, with an expression like she didn’t even know where to begin. 

“I’ll figure it out,” Tommy said, because that’s what he did, figured things out. It was the only thing he could do. “Knew it was coming.” 

“Okay,” was all she said. “But Tommy… why…?” she trailed off, and he pondered how she would have finished the question. _ Why are you standing outside at five in the morning, at your sister’s grave, holding a bottle of whisky? _

“Involuntary manslaughter,” he said, repeating one of the many accusations listed on the court summons. 

“I would have thought most of it was voluntary,” Tessa said, attempting a morbid joke, but he shook his head and the world shook with it. The colors were blurring together, shapes as well. 

“They… it means her.” He got out. 

“What?” Tessa asked, extremely confused, and he could hardly blame her. But he couldn’t say. Couldn’t speak. The wheels of Tessa’s sharp mind were turning, but he turned away from her before he could see the realization dawn on her face. 

“Ada,” she breathed, “They’re... putting you on trial...” 

He might have nodded. Everything was moving slowly. 

“Tommy,” Tessa said, her voice choked and tight. “Tommy, it wasn’t your fault-,” 

He sank to his knees, crouching with his head in his hands. She took two quick steps forward, and was by his side, 

“Listen to me, baby, it wasn’t,” her words faded in his ears, the tears that were leaking from his eyes were dripping crystals. She was saying his name, and her voice was cracking like she might have been crying too. Her hands were on his back and his face, soft like her voice. 

_ I was supposed to fucking protect her _, he wanted to say, and he couldn’t recognize the man that would speak, the one who had gotten his little sister killed, didn’t want to. Her shoulders were shaking, or maybe that was him. He heard, as if from the end of a long dark tunnel, the distinctive sound of the back door creaking open. A voice, Polly’s, in the distance. Tessa was shaking her head, holding her hand out, palm up, a command. Like a queen, a general. His fierce little warrior, flames in her hair and eyes. Ada’s voice was in the background, too, now, and it felt like being in the tunnels again, hearing the echoes, that started sounding like the voices of those who had already been left in the dirt, wondering if you were going to be the next who joined them. 

_ Tommy! _ She was saying, but she was younger, now. _ That prick Frank Douglass is trying to get me to go out with him again. He tried to kiss me in the yard. _And Tommy had called her a narc but pulled a knife on Frank Douglass the very next day, told him to stay the fuck away from his little sister. 

_ Tommy, can I have twopence to go to the pictures? _And he would tell her no, they didn’t have money to spare right now, but he would steal from the church collection tin or the newspaper boy’s pockets and slip it under her pillow. 

_ Tommy, is it true? Did you get me killed? _

_ Tommy? Tommy? _“Tommy?” her voice became Tessa’s, and he knew, at least, that Tessa was really there. “Tommy, listen to me. Can you hear me?” He tried to nod. “Listen, baby… when Sam died, I told myself it was my fault. I don’t know how, or why. I thought I should have stopped him from going, somehow, should have cut my hair and gone in his place. And when my mum died, drowning in champagne, and I found her, I thought that was my fault, too. That I should have done better, that I could have saved her. But I couldn’t have saved them, Tommy. We couldn’t save them, only love them.” 

“That day,” he said, his voice muffled against her chest, thick with tears, he _ couldn’t _ without Ada, he couldn’t do it, do any of it, “the day… she… Fischer came to my office,” he said, and he would find a way to fucking kill that man if it was the last act he committed on earth, he would deal with the lawyers and the coppers and he would fucking rip everything that Jack Fischer was until he was not a man but shreds. “He came to my office, and he fucking told me… that if I apologized to him, he wouldn’t print it,” and the words cut like thorns in his throat, his greatest shame, his greatest mistake, his fucking terrible pride. _ Your arrogance will be your downfall, Shelby, mark my words, _ he had said _ . _Was he working with the Perish? Had he planned all of this, thought it out beforehand? “And I fucking told him no.” He was swimming, fading, swirling into the black, but it was alright. Ada was down there, somewhere. He would find her. A breath caught in Tessa’s throat. 

“Oh,” she said, and he was gripping her robe like a lifeline, the silky material damp against his cheek, and it was all she was wearing, knees on the frozen ground, a thin nightgown against the unflinching cold. But she was warm. “Tom, how much did you take?” she asked, and he realized he was still holding the empty brown bottle, it’s amber catching the first morning rays through the misty morning. John’s voice joined Polly’s, concerned and low. 

“Too fucking much,” Tommy muttered. “It’s all too fucking much.” And then, without any real warning, the earth rose up to swallow him. 

  
  
  


The world was fuzzy, and not in a kind way. Fuzzy like sharp, like petting a porcupine. He could hear them talking, but wasn’t quite sure who “them” was, which bothered him. He wasn’t used to not knowing the answer to questions. The sounds were disjointed, and he wondering why they weren’t speaking in complete sentences. Waste of time, that. Much simpler to just use all the words. 

“Laudanum,” he heard. Then, maybe someone else, “Hospital?”, and he flinched. Fuck, he hated hospitals. Something was touching his hand, and he could feel it, but he couldn’t move his. And then he was down and under again, and then it all came back. 

  
  


“Hey, Tom,” Arthur said, and John looked up from his spot against the wall where he was leaning. Arthur was slouched in a chair pulled up to the bed, looking like his limbs didn’t fit on it. Tommy’s head pounded, like his very brain ached. He was in his bedroom, lying on the bed, still fully clothed. He tried to sit up, and groaned. Arthur silently passed him his cigarette case, and he swiped for it blindly. He was running low, would need a new pack. The two remaining smokes blinked innocently in his swimming eyes. 

“Fuck,” he said, under his breath, and John chuckled. 

“Yeah, ‘e’s back all right,” he said, and it had always impressed Tommy, that John had survived the war with his sense of humor intact. Many of them hadn’t. 

“Yeah,” Arthur said, but his voice was lower, serious. “John Boy, go find the redhead, would’ya?” 

John looked from Arthur to Tommy, skin pale in the dying light. _ Fuck, how long had he been under for? _ Then John shrugged, ambled back across the room, his shoulders rather tighter than usual. _ Jesus Christ, _ Tommy thought. _ So this was how it was going to be. _He lit his cigarette, the flame of the lighter flickering with his unsteady hand. He inhaled as Arthur gathered the courage to speak. 

“Look, Tom,” his older brother said, all awkward good intentions, as always, “Listen, man… was this… did you do it on purpose?” 

Tommy breathed in his smoke to delay his response. “Would it have mattered if it was?” he said, and Arthur’s brow furrowed. 

“‘Course. ‘Course it would, Tom. Don’t talk like that.” 

Tommy paused, took another hit. “It wasn’t on purpose,” he said, and Arthur let out a breath. “Is Tessa…?” he asked, and Arthur shook his head. 

“Fine,” he said. “Backbone on that one. Backside isn’t terrible, neither.” 

Tommy glanced at him. Arthur grinned a bit and held up his hands in surrender. 

“Yeah,” he then said, under his breath. “Yeah. Knew you hadn’t meant it. Knew you had to stick around to beat the gadjos off of ‘er.” 

“Them and you,” Tommy said, leaning back into the pillows. His next exhale sent smoke drifting up to the gilded ceiling, the intricate, swirling whorls of wood dark against the grey floating in the air. The bedroom door creaked open, and Tessa walked in. He couldn’t quite read the expression on her face, but she wasn’t holding a gun on him, which he took as a slightly fortifying sign. 

“I’ll- er,” Arthur bumbled a bit, standing with a swooping motion. “I’ll give you two a moment, shall I?” and he ambled as quickly out of the room as he was able, which made Tessa’s lips twitch. She moved to sit at the end of the bed, cocked her head at him. 

“How do you feel?” 

“If I was in a race with a turtle, I’d tell you to bet on the fucking turtle,” Tommy muttered, and she snorted. 

“Well, you always have been a bit slow,” she said, and her smile was beautiful, and she was beautiful. His head hurt. 

“How long was I out?” 

“Not too long,” she said, tangling her long fingers together in her lap and glancing down at them. “Tried telling the family I showed you my goods and you were overcome with joy, but I don’t think they bought it.” She wanted to make him feel better, he realized. Wanted to ensure his sanity, maybe. 

“‘S not that unlikely,” he said, and she smiled again, a little wavering at the edges. He felt drained, like instead of sleeping, he had sprinted. She bent down to unlace a boot, and he wondered if she had ruined her expensive nightgown on the cold dirt. She was wearing a fluttery chiffon dress, now, in a dark purple that only served to make her look more like royalty than she already did. She tugged off her other boot, and crawled into the bed to lie next to him, her shoulder pressed against his. She sighed. His eyes closed. 

“Would you like me to sing?” Tessa asked him quietly, almost shy. 

“Thought you only sang to horses,” he said, but his words were soft. 

“Horses and whatever it is that’s slow enough to lose a race to a turtle,” she said, and he told her, 

“Slug, maybe.” 

“Alright. Horses and slugs.” He nodded, and she took it as tentative agreement. Her voice was sweet, sweeter than he had expected it to be, and her accent disappeared over the words, lilting and soft, a rendition of a familiar tune. “_ There’s a silver lining, through the dark clouds shining,” _ the words were soft and clear and soaring all at once, and he wondered why she didn’t sing, with a voice like that. His bones felt brittle and stiff. _ “Turn the dark clouds inside out till the boys come home”. _

“Used to sing that in the trenches,” Tommy said, lying his arm over his eyes to block out the light. He missed Ada. “What was on her grave?” 

“Tennyson,” Tessa said. “Ulysses. They let me choose it. Polly said “no one in this family is half intelligent enough to have their words etched in fucking stone’.” Her imitation of Polly was rather accurate, but he heard the underlying note of gratitude in her words, and knew the gesture had impacted her. 

“Mm,” he said, and then, “You know any more?” 

“Of course,” she replied, quietly, and continued her lullabies. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *DJ Khalid voice* ANNOTHA ONE bc the last was super short and you guys have been waiting for so long <3  
A gadje is a non-Romani man


	30. Violent Minds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Come on daddy, haunt me  
I know you're never gonna leave me  
Indulge in your sick mind  
And baby, I'm yours  
Stopping me this one time  
So I tell myself I'm alright  
I'm gonna lose my gold stars  
And baby, I'm yours

“It’s happening tomorrow,” Polly said, as if there was a way for Tessa to not know that. 

“Yes,” she replied, rather idily, wondering if this was a conversation they were meant to be having right in front of the tailor, who was currently working on pinning the dress, hemming the edges to make up for Tessa’s slight height. They were in some kind of parlour, but Tessa couldn’t really tell what the room’s purpose was meant to be. Another sitting room, perhaps, like the house had a shortage of those. The tailor, a slight woman with dark skin, did not appear to be stupid enough to show that she was listening, in any case. 

“And the plan is set?” Polly asked, lounging in an armchair like a cat, her legs drawn up under her. She was smoking one of her clove cigarettes, and the earthy smell wafted over to Tessa where she stood in front of a full-body mirror. 

“His and mine,” she replied, as ambiguously as she could. The tailor shot her a nervous glance, and it amused Tessa, for a moment. No one had ever looked at her like that before. Like she was a threat. She supposed she was. She smoothed her hands down the front of the velvet, the material soft under her cold fingers. 

“Take it in more at the waist,” Polly said, and the tailor nodded rather shakily, moved around Tessa to place more pins. 

“You’ll have me looking like a tramp, Pol,” Tessa said, sucking in air to accommodate for the tightening. She hadn’t had any snow that day, and it was starting to show in the shaking of her numb fingers, a weariness and pressure in her head. It was still early. She had some left. But she was saving it, and now was not the time. She could deal with it, for now. She likely felt better than Tommy did, asleep in his bedroom, beaten, for once, by the exhaustion. It wouldn’t last. He would be up and away before the noon light had reached its peak in the sky, she had no doubt. 

“Tighter waist means more flare over the hips. Covers the gun. Put a slit up her right leg,” she called, and the tailor’s movements became even jumpier at the mention of the weapon, and Tessa wished Polly would refrain from terrifying a woman who was holding sharp pins in trembling hands immediately next to Tessa’s skin. She shot the other woman a look, but Polly only smirked slightly around her cigarette, watching the process impassively. 

“How far, ma’am?” The tailor asked, and Tessa should have tried to find out her name. It struck her as rather odd that Tommy would have a female tailor, but the more she thought about it, the less strange it seemed. He had female secretaries, female workers in his factories, females in his board of directors. Perhaps a female tailor was not such a surprise. She considered whether he had intentionally selected a woman to make her dress because he didn’t like the idea of another man’s hands on her, even in a professional capacity, but she dismissed the idea. Tommy was not ruled by fancy. She, however, was, and with each slight alteration of the dress, she was more and more reminded of it. It was a dark hunter green, almost black, lush velvet and a low, draping back. Polly had chosen the color. “It’ll hide the blood,” she had said, the first words she had spoken right in front of the poor seamstress, a statement which was likely what had initially caused her fright. 

“All the way to her cunt, if you like. We don’t have anybody to impress,” Polly said, taking a graceful drag, and the tailor’s mouth dropped open before she snapped it closed, and Tessa did not quite succeed in stifling her snort. She returned her gaze to her reflection in the tri-part folding mirror, looking rather disjointed in the elegant dress with her loose hair and bare face, like an actor who had forgotten to don half their costume before getting on stage. She unconsciously touched the place on her hip where her holster would sit, and then tapped it. 

“Here, please,” she said, and the seamstress nodded. Tommy had made John pick the woman up from the city and take her to the house for this purpose alone, as Polly’s dress of shimmering silver had already been completed, and now hung on a hook by the door, ready for any last-minute alterations. 

“How is he?” Polly asked, and Tessa wished she could move so that she could steal a pull from her cigarette, but she stood diligently still. 

“He’ll be alright,” she said, trying to keep the worry from her voice, for her own sake as much as Polly’s, whose dark eyes were gauging her with sharp wit. “He’s resting. Though probably not for much longer.” 

A grey stream of smoke fluttered past Polly’s lips, her arched brows raised slightly in agreement. She hummed. 

“He’ll rest easier when we’ve taken some of the weight off his shoulders,” she said, and Tessa could only think of the seamstress, who was crouched at her feet, could only think of how she must feel, standing in a room with two people rather unsubtly discussing acts of terrible violence, could only think about how the seamstress might feel about that, and not how she did herself. 

“You afraid?” Polly asked, which rather surprised her. She twisted her fingers in the dress’s skirt. She thought about Tommy’s face, broken and empty, staring at his sister’s grave with nearly invisible tears sparkling in his blue, blue eyes. 

“No,” she responded, because she wasn’t, not of this. “I’m not afraid. I’m angry.” 

Polly observed her for another moment, and Tessa wondered what Tommy’s father had looked like, if his eyes had been dark or light, if he had shared the calculating stare that was such a trademark of the rest of the family. 

“Good,” Polly said, rising. “Anger is a tool. Fear is an obstacle.” She came close enough that Tessa could smell her perfume behind her, light flowers and dark musk. She took another sweeping appraisal of the dress, then flicked her fingers idily at the seamstress. 

“Could you give us a moment?” 

The woman’s dark brown eyes widened, and she drew back at the words, then her feet followed her shoulders until she was quietly closing the hallway door behind her. Tessa caught Polly’s eyes in the mirror, and the older woman was still holding her cigarette, nursing it. 

“You know how to find him?” she asked, without preamble, and Tessa nodded, wishing she had a gun to hold just to have something to do with her hands. She had grown under the weight of people’s scrutiny. Everyone, priests and teachers and adults, and she had also grown used to it. Except, it would seem, when it came from Elizabeth Grey. 

“Yes. I know where he’ll be.” 

“Good,” Polly said again, taking a long, slow drag. There had always been something wild in her eyes, to Tessa, something bright and flickering like the soul of an animal. “Tommy will leave early to begin preparations. Should give you plenty of time.”

Tessa jerked her chin in a tiny semblance of another nod, busying herself with taking in the way the dress clung to her shape. Her grandmothers would likely have been appalled, by all accounts, though she couldn’t say for sure, as she had never met either of them. So much family gone, so many roles in the stage of her life left open. She had had a mother. Of course, everyone has a mother, but for a while she had _ really _had one, when she was young in America. Her mother and father had caused an intense scandal in the family, which had still existed at the time, through their divorce, an occurrence usually limited to court orders, on grounds for infidelity, which Tessa had been too young to really understand. Her mother had been an actress, before she was married, and was still swarmed with adoration after she ended her career, even all the way in London. Perhaps that was what had done it, the constant legion of admiring men, a husband whose only passion was his work, a strange country she was a stranger to. Or perhaps it had been her father who had been unfaithful, swept up by some young intern at the hospital. Tessa didn’t actually know. She had never asked, and she doubted they would tell her. She had wondered about it often, growing up, seeing the other children’s intact families, missed her brother who was off in the war, missed her father who she mostly remembered as a pat on her head, the smell of cigars, and empty rooms. They were rich, it was true. Her mother had made a fortune on her movies and her grandparents had gotten vast amounts of wealth from the American gold rush even before that. Her father came from immigrants, but he excelled in school and built up an empire of a career for himself, a truly handmade success story. And here Tessa was, after all of that, plotting murder in an evening gown with a family of gangsters. But she could be dead, too, like the rest of them. So perhaps that counted for something. 

“I had a brother,” she blurted out to Polly, whose eyebrows raised. “He died when I was young. His name was Sam, he was five years older than me. He got drafted, and then he… got blown up. He was buried at the Manor, in the graveyard. I haven’t been back since the fire to see if the graves survived. I’m not sure I want to know.” 

Polly nodded, slowly, pursed her lips and stared for a few silent moments. She was deliberating something, Tessa could tell, and was hoping it wasn’t judgment. Then, 

“Michael had a sister. I had a daughter, as well. But they took her, and then she died, so far away from me. Never knowing if I loved her. If I wanted her.” She surprised Tessa by lifting a smooth, cool hand to her cheek. “Tessa, there’s something you should know.” 

  
  
  


“They said you were supposed to be resting,” Leonard told him, as the clack of his shoes alerted him to Thomas’ presence. He was reminding himself not to refer to the man as “Shelby”, or, at least, not in front of Tessa, who would reprimand him. 

“You’re living in his house, papa, you can’t keep spitting his name out like a sour lemon,” she had said, and he had never been able to say no to her. Karl was playing contentedly be the roaring fire, stacking blocks in different orders. He was a smart lad. And he was quiet, as long as Leonard was nearby. The distinctively sharp sound of Thomas’ footsteps halted at the door, and he leaned his shoulder on the frame, crossed his arms. 

“So I keep being told,” he said, his eyes quietly observing Karl’s movements, but his gaze somehow far away. Leonard doubted he was really taking in any of the scene before him, and wanted to close his book and ask what it was he wanted, but his years of professional training dealing with bureaucrats and dying patients alike had allowed him better control over his composure. Thomas cleared his throat, apparently tearing himself from his own thoughts, back on schedule, back on track. He was a precise sort of man, Leonard acknowledged. But precision does nothing to encourage morality, sometimes serves only to make the vices more efficient. That seemed to be the case for Thomas Shelby, anyway. 

“They wouldn’t tell me what it was you’re meant to be recovering from.” 

Thomas didn’t reply, regarding him silently. After a moment, he spoke. 

“I had a conversation with Polly today. She said Tessa told her your son is buried on the property of your family’s house.” 

Leonard’s knuckles tightened on the armrest of his chair, the wood hard under his fingers. He did not begrudge Tessa for discussing it, and, if he was being perfectly honest, he did not even mind her talking about it with Polly, because he himself sometimes admitted things to that woman that he would never have let escape in the company of another. But why Thomas was coming to him about it, he could not fathom, could not tell if it was a threat or an underhanded attack of some sort that he should be preparing for. He had had as limited contact with the man whose house he was sheltering in like a child as possible, the downside to which being that he was exceptionally poor at interpreting Thomas’ mannerisms, if that was even something a person could be capable of. His face didn’t so much as flicker, which was less than nothing to go on. He found himself wondering, as he often did, what the appeal was of this one, specifically, for his daughter. If the absolute lack of expression on his face meant something to her somehow, if she had deluded herself into imagining humanity there. 

“So I’m going to rebuild it.”

Leonard blinked. The house was thirteen bedrooms, three stories, not including the attic and cellars, seven lavatories, four staircases, a stable, barns, and a track, and fifty acres of manicured lands. All of which had been completely obliterated when the Germans dropped their bombs through the windows. An agent had valued the property a few years ago at just over half a million pounds. 

“Why?” he asked, sharply. Thomas raised his eyebrows a little, and Leonard assumed he was going to leave that as response enough, a gesture that signified that Leonard should already know why. _ For her_. But then, the other man jerked his chin in a habitual sort of noncommittal gesture (so he did have those after all, it would seem), and said, 

“So that Karl has a place to come visit you.” 

Leonard started at him, snorted. Thomas didn’t blink. 

“I’m going to adopt him. Once I’ve finished with all this shit.” He said, eyes glittering blue and cold, cheeks cut like scars. Leonard was done searching his face. There was nothing visible to him there. 

“Once you’re finished?” he repeated, and Thomas’ eyes narrowed slightly. “When you’ve become an entirely respectable politician, with no skeletons in your closet, you mean?” 

“Yes.” Thomas said, shortly, cleared his throat again, reached into his trouser pocket for his cigarettes. He wasn’t wearing a suit, which Leonard had hardly ever seen, and he looked younger to him because of it. “I do what I do to keep my family safe. Once this is over, it won’t be necessary to engage in… questionable behavior, anymore.” 

“If you want to become a politician, you’ll have to get better at lying,” Leonard retorted, and Thomas’s lips twitched in the barest hint of a mocking, menacing smile. “Even a cathedral, when built on bones, can only carry tainted prayers to the heavens.” 

“If you really believe that, I have some bad news for you about many of your places of worship,” Thomas replied, immediately, and they both locked eyes, testing the other. Neither gave in, and Leonard broke the stalemate by speaking again. Karl’s attention turned to him briefly at the sound of his voice, then back to the wooden trains in his hands. 

“Forgive me for saying so, Mr. Shelby, but it still sounds like attempted bribery to me. My only remaining concern is what you’re trying to receive in return.” 

Thomas looked like he was physically restraining himself from rolling his eyes, which meant that, whatever it was, he wanted it desperately. Enough to swallow his own pride. He clicked his tongue softly, and spoke. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FINALLY some fucking plot development lmao


	31. Wicked Ones

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She's my princess, and a stunner  
On the low she's my dirty little lover  
She shouts her pain at the moon  
I'm a nightmare and a fighter  
On the low I'm a gangster moonlighter  
I feel the weight of it too 
> 
> Double down on the pain  
I can feel you in my brain  
The Wicked Ones live forever  
Sinking down like a stone  
I feel you in my bones  
The Wicked Ones Live Forever

There was a quiet retching sound coming from the house’s smallest lavatory, right off the smallest parlour. Michael halted because of his instincts to protect the smaller children in the orphanages, to be responsible for them. The sound of the attempted smothering of sickness was familiar to him, the reaction immediate, to the extent that he was pushing open the door for fear that it would be Karl or James losing their lunch before he had considered that the majority of the house’s occupants were adults and that not one of said adults were under his care. And if it had to be one of them, he would have given rather a large sum of money for it to not have been Tessa. But there she was, holding her hair back, crouched in front of the toilet, vomiting right into the bowl. He didn’t know what the fuck to do. She had definitely noticed him, even if she was currently too preoccupied to be able to say or do anything about it, so he could not make a hasty retreat. But she was also not a seven girl old girl in a London orphanage, in fact, she was older than he was, though not by too far a stretch. He didn’t know far exactly, but she was younger than Tommy, that was certain, perhaps significantly. And she looked younger to him now than she ever had before, despite her small stature, her skin pale and face blanched, shoulders shaking. Something about the force of her presence made him tend to forget how slight she was. He made his choice, rather hesitantly, and stepped into the room, closing the lavatory door behind him. The space was small and he stood awkwardly still, trying to recall if he had ever in his life been put in a spot spot where he might attempt to comfort a woman in such a delicate position. He would have been relatively certain of his ability to pull it off, had it been any other woman. 

“You… alright?” He asked. Tessa wiped a shaky hand across her mouth, then immediately heaved again, and something struck him like a brick across the face. 

“Hang on- are you-,” 

“Shut the _ fuck _up, Michael,” she managed to spit out, venomously, before pitching forward into the bowl again. He wanted to glare at her, but couldn’t overpower the overwhelming surprise. She leaned back, sighed and put her palms to her face, pressing them against it. 

“You’re pregnant,” he said, because his mind refused to come up with any other words for him to speak. 

“Yep,” she said, looking grey and drained and lost, her head bobbing with the word as she dropped her chin into her hand, balancing her elbow on the edge of the toilet, still sitting on the ground. He lowered himself, slowly, and sat across from her, back against the sink, pulling up his legs slightly because there wasn’t enough room to stretch them out. 

“Is it Tommy’s?” 

Her eyes had squeezed closed like they were being pressured to do so by some external force, but they snapped open again, and she turned her head to glare at him. 

“No, I fucked the ghost of Franz Ferdinand. Of course it’s Tommy’s.” 

Michael raised his eyebrows at her tone. 

“Well, seeing as we all know the same doesn’t go for him, I figured I’d ask,” he bit back, and she scoffed, but only half flippantly. The other half seemed to be genuine amusement. She was an odd girl. She leaned back and pulled her knees up to her chest, put her head back on the wall behind her. It was patterned with ornate blue and white wallpaper, a design of birds and foliage. He wondered if the birds were storks. 

“Does he know?” He asked, looking at the wall instead of her. 

“No,” she whispered. “I didn’t even, until this morning. Your mum told me. And then it was like… I don’t know. Like a switch flipped.” 

Michael nodded, slowly. “She does that stuff sometimes, my mum. How far gone, d’you reckon?” 

Tessa shook her head, her waves tousling down her back in a thick red cascade. Her eyes were bloodshot. 

“Couldn’t even say. I’d have to think about it. I thought I was missing my monthly because of the snow.” 

Michael held back his flinch over the discussion of women’s private affairs, and reminded himself that in this life, any kind of blood that didn’t result in death was a kind of blessing. He held his tongue, for several more moments, before asking the question that was of true consequence. 

“You going to keep it?” 

Tessa hit her head against the wall with a dull _ thud. _ “I don’t fucking know,” she said, under her breath, and then another _ thud, _and then, again, just as quietly, “I don’t fucking know.”

“Mm.” He said, scratching his head. “Well, your timing truly could _ not _be any fucking worse.” 

She gave a tired, halfhearted little smile. She had very straight, white teeth, like a true American. But her skin was pale like the Irish fog, her eyes like London thunderclouds. 

“What would you do, if you were me?” she asked, and he scoffed. 

“Fucking hell. No idea.” 

Her smile steadied a bit. He felt for her, suddenly, in a way that he hadn’t expected to. 

“You love him?” he asked. 

“Love who?” she said, as if she didn’t know. 

“Tommy.” 

She took a breath. “Apparently. That’s the only explanation I’ve got left, anyway,” she said, out loud, but her eyes were soft and lovely and said _O__f course I do. _

“Then I’d keep it. If I was you. He would never let anything bad happen to you. Or the baby.” 

She winced at the last word, then stared down at her hands, pressing down on one of her thumbs. 

“It’s something bad happening to him that worries me,” she said, and then seemed to decide she had given too much, spoken too freely, he saw her face close like shutters being pulled on a window. “You can’t tell him, Michael.” 

“I fucking wouldn’t,” Michael said, offended. 

“No,” Tessa corrected, her red-rimmed eyes intense, her full lips pressed together. “You don’t understand. If I _ never _ tell him, neither do you. Or I will ruin your fucking life.” 

He stared at her, cocked his head. He had only been Polly’s son for a few years, but it had been long enough for him to know that when he heard a woman’s threats, he had best listen to them. 

“Fine,” he said. Her eyes searched his face for another moment before she nodded, slightly. 

“Shake on it,” she said, and he spit into his palm and held it out to her, a habit mostly inforced by the brothers. She made a face like he was the one being disgusting when she had been puking in front of him not five minutes prior. 

“On second thought, your word will do.” 

They were silent and still for a bit, both mindlessly staring off, their eyes fixed and as unmoving as they were, and then Tessa sighed and pulled out her cigarette case, a crease between her eyebrows and her dainty jawline set. She offered him a smoke and he took it from her slim fingers. He pulled out his lighter and lit it for her, like he did for his mum. She took a drag, the dry tobacco crackling in the silence. 

“Polly told me you had a sister,” She said. Her words were even and soft, but he fixed her with a penetrating stare, which had absolutely no effect on her. He supposed spending so much time in proximity to Tommy made a person rather immune to such things. She took another drag and tapped some ashes into the toilet bowl. He didn’t speak. “She told me she died.” 

“I don’t remember her,” Michael said, shortly. 

“That’s worse, in a way,” Tessa said, quietly, gazing up at the ceiling instead of looking at him. She _ was _ young. But her words were heavy, like the brother’s were when they talked about the war. “I’m sorry.” 

He didn’t know what to make of her, of her statement. 

“No one has ever said they’re sorry to me about that,” he said, and she shrugged a dainty shoulder, making her dress flutter. Her clothes always had the distinctive markings of old money, casual elegance, simple silhouettes and clean lines and expensive material. Tommy probably loved it. She looked regal, even now, hunkered on the lavatory floor. 

“Sometimes it hurts more to miss the what-ifs than it does to miss the person themselves,” she said, like she knew. 

“What happened to your mum?” he asked, because he had always wanted to know, but never stupid enough to ask. No one would have told him if he did. 

“She died. Whiskey sickness. Or champagne sadness, in her case.” 

Her tone was flat, but her lashes fluttered. If she had Tommy’s child, Michael thought it would probably come out with lashes so long they would brush the stars when it blinked. 

“‘M sorry.” 

She nodded, and took another drag, and he copied her, breathing the smoke back up through his nose, not realizing she was watching him until she pointed at him with her cigarette. 

“How do you do that?” 

“Do what?” 

“That nose… thing,” she said, gesturing vaguely. 

“Oh, that? ‘S easy, really.” 

“Teach me?” she asked, big eyes bright, despite everything. _ Should’ve been a real nurse, _ Arthur had said about Tessa once, when she wasn’t there to hear it. _ More spine in that body than ‘alf the men in my regiment put together. _“I’m a fast learner. And very talented with my mouth.” 

Michael’s lips twitched. 

“Alright,” he agreed. “Take a drag. Good. Now hold the smoke in your mouth. Push it out with your tongue, no, you’re doing it wrong, you’ve gotta trap the smoke behind it first. Okay, inhale again, try to…,” 

  
  


Inside Arrow House, it was warm. None of the house’s occupants could have said why, on that particular day, the fires had been able, for once, to combat the winter chill. Two young people sat on a bathroom floor, smoking. Down the hall, another young man was bouncing a toddler on his knee while his wife fed another with a bottle, two more children in the room with them, one asleep and one playing with an unloaded gun. An older man with hooded eyes and a mustache stared into one of the raging fires, a crystal glass held forgotten in his hand. A man even older than him stared out of an upstairs window from a wheelchair, his brow furrowed at the misty landscape. A beautiful, dark haired woman looked around the empty dining room she was in, as if to ensure her solitude, and pulled a worn picture from her dainty clutch, and in it was a faded photograph of a smiling girl, young and pretty, with eyes that shone out even from the aged paper. On the bottom, in a rather untidy scrawl, it read, _ Long live the Revolution. All my love from London. _A single tear dripped from the woman’s eye, but it vanished like it had never been shed, splashing on the photo and then gone. 

“We miss you, Ada,” the woman said, and then she smiled, like the picture had spoken back. 

A man stood at the head of a handsome oak desk, his back to it and his hands clasped behind him, rolling something small and metal in his blunt fingers. The bullet caught the light, and on it’s side was engraved, not a name, but a word. _ Perish. _The man’s eyes, a shockingly bright shade of blue, closed. He loaded the bullet into a gun. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LAST CHAPTER NOOOOOO  
but!!! The sequel, Rai(g)n, is in the works, and the first few chapters will be posted soon, so you won't have to go too long without some T&T in your lives.  
I just wanted to take this time to thank you all for your INCREDIBLE commitment to me and to this story. I mean, fuck, guys, this thing has four HUNDRED comments on it holy shit. I have the absolute, incomparably best readers on this site, and I love you all to absolute death. Thank you again, from the bottom of my heart, for all of your love and support. You mean the world to me <3


	32. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And I said, I'll check in tomorrow if I don't wake up dead  
This is the road to ruin and we're starting at the end
> 
> My heart is like a stallion, they love it more when it's broke/n
> 
> -Alone Together, Fall Out Boy

“Hello, beautiful,” Tessa murmured. Starchaser was growing, but she would always be small, and Tessa had not yet grown accustomed to the idea. Chase had been incredibly large for a full-blood Arabian, over sixteen hands and over a tonne of muscle and bone. Star was lithe and little, and skittish where Chase had been bold. The hot desert sun ran through the veins of these horses, and that was why she liked them. Tommy chose gypsy mounts, heavier and sturdier, reliable. Durable. Arabians were not. Tessa found it rather amusing that their choice of breeds so perfectly reflected the dichotomy between their own personalities, but then again, Tommy had been the only man Chase ever allowed on his back. That was funny, too. The black filly snorted a greeting, which meant she was feeling civil today. Often when Tessa came down to work with her, she would ignore her presence completely. 

“You’re nearly grown, now, love. I thought we might start getting you used to having someone on your back.” She had started with reins, which Star had hated. Their sessions in the ring were improving at a monotonously slow pace, but she would respond to commands about half of the time she was given them, now, which was better than the absolute resistance Tessa had first experienced. _ No bits, _Tessa had told Charlie, firmly. If you trained Arabs right, they didn’t need them. If you trained Arabs right, they didn’t even need the reins, but that took time. A lot of time, it would seem, in Star’s case. “Not riding, just sitting. I promise I’m not heavy. What do you say, baby? You trust me?” 

Star regarded her warily. That was a _ no. _The horse shifted on her dainty legs, hoofs stirring up the straw on the floor of the stable. 

“It’s all right. We have time.” They didn’t. The opening was creeping in, like bad weather, dark and terrifying. And the pregnancy. If Tommy knew about it, he would probably not even let her down to the stables, much less get on an unbroken filly’s back. Tessa had not processed it. She didn’t even know how to begin. She didn’t know if she wanted a baby, if she wanted to be a mother, and she thought that was the sort of thing a person should be sure of before contemplating bringing a whole new life into the world, and that alone was enough to halt her ability to approach the concept. She didn’t _ know. Michael was right, _ she thought, wryly. _ My timing could truly not be worse. _Star snorted, and Tessa took off a fawn glove to stroke her velvet nose. So unexpectedly soft, like Tommy’s hair. 

“Come on, love, come with me,” she murmured, and took a halter from a peg on the wall. Star didn’t mind halters, at least, and would acquiesce to be led with them, if only for a short while. She slipped it over her horse’s head, and continued talking, keeping her voice low. “There’s a lot happening around here, recently. Fascists and funerals. Can you feel it?” The horse followed her out of the stable, head lifted high, shaking her mane. She smelled earthy and warm, over the sharp, metallic smell of the cold, the high ceilings doing little to trap heat. “No wonder you’re uneasy. It’s a hard place to feel safe. But you’re alright. We’ll be alright.” At this point, she wondered if her words were more for her own benefit than the horse’s. 

She led Star to the neatly groomed dirt ring, her hooves clopping softly, passing Curly and Charlie, who were sat around a rickety table near the tack room, playing cards. Curly was winning, by the look on Charlie’s face. He had a knack for games and horses. 

“Evening, Miss Tessa,” Charlie said, and Curly looked up with a bright smile. “How’s your filly coming?” 

“Slowly,” Tessa said, with a twisted grin. “Can’t get her to do much of anything when Thomas isn’t around.” 

“And where is our lord dictator now?” Charlie asked, frowning down at his hand of cards. 

“At the house. Probably making calls. At this rate we might as well attach the telephone permanently to his head.” 

Curly laughed loudly, pointing in glee. “You should do it, Tessa!” he said. “That would be awfully funny.” 

Charlie’s thin lips quirked. “Yeah, awfully,” he muttered. “So he’s alright, then?” 

The issue with having more than fifteen people in one house was that there was little personal business that could go on without everyone being made aware of it. 

“He’s alright.” Star stamped her foot impatiently. “Had a bit too much to drink, but he’ll be fine.” 

Charlie’s eyes snapped up to her, and Tessa knew he knew what it was Tommy had too much to drink of, but he said nothing. 

“Good luck with your Arab. He should’ve gotten you a mutt. Mixed blood is stronger. Easier to deal with.” 

“Ah, well,” Tessa said, stroking the filly’s neck, which was taunt and firm. “Strength isn’t everything. And if I can handle Tommy Shelby, a yearling won’t bother me.” 

Charlie huffed and shuffled his cards. “Rich people,” he tutted, but his tone was more teasing than accusatory. 

“Bye, Tessa!” Curly called, and Tessa waved at him with a little smile. All these people. All of Tommy’s people. They felt like hers, too, now. The ring was even drafiter than the house, and Tessa was grateful for her leather gloves and the protection they offered her. 

“Alright, baby,” she said, and the filly regarded her uneasily, her delicate ears up and flickering back and forth. “You ready?” 

  
  
  


Tessa hit the ground with a sharp shock of pain in her side, the impact shaking through her bones like a child’s rattle. She muttered some curses into the dirt but sat up as quickly as she could, her quick breaths misting out into the cold air like she was smoking, tried to rub some of the pain out of her shoulder. Star was skittering anxiously around the edge of the ring, hooves stirring up dust as she took two sidesteps, keeping her wide, liquid eyes on Tessa like she was a lion about to maul her. Tessa hissed through her teeth, fingers still massaging her arm, trying to reorient herself. Falling off of horses was an unavoidable aspect of riding them. It was a given, it was inevitable, and she was still angry, and she was still fucking _ pregnant, _and she couldn’t be getting herself thrown off of unbroken fillies unless she wanted the choice to be taken from her, the choice, the fucking choice, how was she supposed to choose- 

Star blinked at her benignly, and Tessa wanted to throw a shoe at her or something, but couldn’t bring herself to do it. 

“You are a _ menace,” _she called, to the horse, like an asylum patient. Star reached down to scratch her muzzle on her forelock, her previous apprehension removed now that Tessa remained twenty feet away. “You hear me? A menace!” Star snorted as if in disregard. She did not care. Tessa huffed, and clambered inelegantly to her feet, brushing dirt off of her jacket. She sighed again, shortly, observing her beautiful little horse, all legs and gleaming black coat so dark it looked like liquid. 

“Look,” she said, trying to calm her tone. “I’m not Tommy, alright? I get it. You and every girl he meets fall at his feet, I’m not one to talk, excetera. But do you think we could avoid the cliches and just fucking work together on this one? I’m not Tommy. You’re right. But you’re not Chase. So for the love of God, just fucking work with me, here.” Star listened to her speech with swiveling ears, pawing slightly. Tessa stared back, and for a moment neither of them moved. Then, to Tessa’s very, very great surprise, the horse took a step forward. Then another. 

“That’s right,” Tessa said, as encouragingly as she could. “There you go, come on now, love, it’s alright.” Star took another reluctant, loping stride, dragging her hooves, but approaching, the white blaze down her face bright against the falling darkness, the lead trailing onto the ground. Tessa clucked gently to her. The horse halted, started again, stopped, started. Drew closer. “You and me, baby. Making up our minds,” Tessa said, very quietly, once she could be sure only the horse would hear, and Star dropped her head and nudged her with it, bonking against her sore shoulder. 

“Ouch,” Tessa complained, but stroked her nose anyway. Her presence was comforting, somehow, like sharing a single, flashing moment of empathy with a stranger. “We’ll call it a day for now, then. Come on, lets go rub you down.” 

  
  


The water was running in Tommy’s lavatory, steam swirling out past the cracked door. His first thought was of danger. It always seemed to be, now. Danger first, and then he thought maybe one of the kids had broken in and started ransacking the place, and he had half a mind to find John and ask him why the fuck Tommy bothered having twelve maids to keep an eye out if even that couldn’t prevent the destruction of his property, but he pushed open the door first, to investigate, forcing himself not to draw his gun. He kept the Colt on him at all times, now. He found it difficult to remove even while trying to sleep, stuffed it under his pillow, or, sometimes, depending on the night, kept it right in his hand. Tessa was submerged in the tub, her head leaned back and resting against the wall. Tommy crossed his arms and took her in for a moment. Maybe two, maybe three. He allowed himself the indulgence. 

“You have a bath in your room, you know,” he said, and she shrugged a wet shoulder but didn’t open her closed eyes. 

“Yours is bigger,” she said, and she was right, so he didn’t bother to respond, just took her in like watching her was as necessary for his survival as the oxygen in his lungs. He much preferred her this way, naked and alone with him, and he would be damned if he let the opportunity to appreciate it pass him by, to focus on her to the exclusion of everything else, to shove it all from his mind until she was the only thing inside. No smoke grenades, only the way a few strands of her pinned hair were falling and sticking to her neck in wavy shapes, darker due to the water, looking almost brown. The hair piled on her head, however, was as bright as ever, shimmering like a crown, gold and rubies and precious jewels. Her shapely legs were stretched out and crossed at her ankles, bouncing slightly like she couldn’t stand to keep so still, her lovely white skin like a painter’s blank canvass, her very faint freckles invisible from even a few feet away. Her chest rose and fell as she sighed, and he watched the way the movement lifted the tops of her breasts from the water, a few drops clinging to the hollows of her collarbones. She was beautiful like a sunrise, like the light peeking up from the horizon to illuminate the world. And then he noticed the bruises. Blooming on her arm and across her slim shoulder like a flower, smudged across her cheek like dirt. He stepped closer to inspect them, worried, thrown off from his mission by the way the steam carried her scent and enveloped him in it. If he was winter, she was spring, Hades and Persephone, and hell didn’t seem so bad when she was near. He reached out to brush one of the purpling spots, the barest brush against her, and her eyes flickered open. 

“Why is it you bought me a demon instead of a horse?” she asked, and he snorted gently, trailed his fingers down her smooth arm where it was resting on the edge of the porcelain tub. 

“Takes one to know one,” he said, and she splashed him with a few drops of warm water from the tips of her delicate fingers. 

“Are you going to join me or not?” she asked, and he ticked his head slightly. 

“Wasn’t sure if I was allowed to,” he told her, and she smiled. 

“It’s the horse I’m cross with, not you. You’re allowed, long as you can pay the entry fee.”

“How much do you want?” he asked, already undoing his tie, and she laughed at him. 

“A cigarette,” she said. 

“That all?” 

“And a kiss,” she decided, her pink lips quirked playfully, and he marvelled at her for a moment before obliging, her mouth even warmer than the water, soft and smooth, smiling against his. His undone tie trailed into the bath, and she closed her eyes again as he pulled away and continued undressing, taking out two cigarettes from his case as he did so, lighting one and balancing it in his mouth as he pulled off his trousers, distracted by her bare skin, the shape of her ribcage and curves of her hips. He set his pocketwatch on the floor, his cufflinks, his knife, took off his holster and for once didn’t immediately miss the comforting feeling of the gun under his arm. He slipped off his socks and shoes, breathing burning smoke out of his nose, and then nudged her gently to scoot her forward, settling in behind her with a sloshing of water. He had absolutely no knowledge of the sort of things women put into their bath water, but it smelled sweet and clean and she was soft against him, her body conforming to his, fitting perfectly against his chest, nestled between his legs. He handed her the second cigarette and she took it with slightly pruned fingers. He took the lighter from where he had placed it on the edge and lit it for her, the smell of the smoke at odds against the light, feminine smell of her. They were quiet, and he trailed his palm over her thigh mindlessly, caught up in thoughts about bombs and blood. 

“Will you stay tonight?” he asked her, afraid that she would say no, that she would leave, that it would only be him and his mind in the darkness, waiting for the oncoming violence. 

“I’ll always stay with you,” she said, and he pressed his lips to her neck. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fluffy little extra chapter that I wasn't going to post but I just love u guys so much

**Author's Note:**

> EXTRA STUFF WOOOO: 
> 
> Playlist for this book:
> 
> https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3B6vhDhsUSlvis3jImbWEU
> 
> Tommy, Tessa, and the brothers:  
Tommy- https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5Bf2DwJKLnEXHtDcPrJOnx  
Tessa- https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5sojtflOAcPMLxBfPNe4xb  
Peaky Boys- https://open.spotify.com/playlist/7nwTXhZf3GoZ8AeMPNtTlm
> 
> Moodboards: 
> 
> https://www.pinterest.com/falloutginger/preying/  
https://www.pinterest.com/falloutginger/evol/  
https://www.pinterest.com/falloutginger/broken/  
https://www.pinterest.com/falloutginger/raign/
> 
> and you can hit me up on tumblr whenever to say whatever, its 3xc3lsior !!! would loveee to hear from u guys
> 
> adore you!!! and, as always, thank you endlessly for your support xoxo


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